


Virus

by animefreak



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: F/M, Gen, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 22,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1409842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animefreak/pseuds/animefreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya under the weather. Napoleon on the prowl. An enchanting blonde with an agenda of her own and THRUSH up to their usual shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Napoleon had been sitting beside his partner's bed in the infirmary in the Berlin UNCLE office for two days. He had debriefed on the mission just concluded to his superior, Alexander Waverly, but did not feel that leaving Illya to recover in Berlin on his own was a good idea. There was just something about the damage his partner had taken and the disturbing amount of time it was taking for him to come back to consciousness. Illya's repeated attempts to yank off the bandage on his neck were also of concern.

"Come on, partner. You've had the transfusions. You're supposed to be awake and healing." Napoleon ignored the first reaction he had to the pale, unconscious form of his partner laying so still on the bare surface of the stone sarcophagus lid. The cemetery was one of the few to survive bombing damage. Napoleon located his partner inside and ancient looking mausoleum. Nothing had felt right since.

A low moan attracted his attention. The rapid movement of Illya's eyes under his closed lids indicated he was dreaming again. He shifted, his free hand heading for his throat again. Napoleon leaned over and grabbed the wandering hand.

"Illya, dammit. Wake up."

Illya started. Slowly, his eyes opened. He frowned, trying to bring his eyes into focus on the familiar face. He blinked sleepily. The sun was coming up outside the eastern facing window. He frowned at that and muttered something about Napoleon going home before the sun rose.

"What are you talking about?"

Illya shook his head slightly, the cobwebs of his dreams and injuries clearing. He thought about what he'd just said and disengaged his hand from Napoleon's. "You've been here all night. You probably need sleep," he said much more clearly. He met Napoleon's dark gaze directly. He read worry in those eyes. "What's wrong?"

"It's taken you three days to wake up, partner."

Illya's frown deepened. Three days. Three days. There was something about the length of time that worried him, but he couldn't latch onto it. "Must've been worse than I thought."

"No. That's what's had everyone worried."

He blinked. "I'm missing something."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Chernin – he – had a knife. He slashed at me with it. There was – a civilian?" He found his memories muddled. It was dark. He was in an alley. The sound of lightly running footsteps came toward him. A young woman, all long dark curls and frightened eyes, materialized out of the darkness. She stopped, looked back over her shoulder and fear drove her on, trying to get around him. The huge bulk of Chernin loomed up behind her, reaching out for the woman, a knife in his other hand.

"A civilian?"

"A woman. A young woman. She – Did I hit my head?"

Napoleon let out a half laugh. "No. But you almost bled to death."

"What?"

"Where did you run into Chernin?"

"The alley behind the warehouse."

Solo's eyebrows rose. "That's miles from where I found you."

Illya looked suspicious. "And where was that?"

"A graveyard."

Illya lurched up, vague unease turning into sharp fear. Napoleon reached to push him back down, but the slighter man was already leaning back into his pillows. "A graveyard?"

"Mausoleum."

The blue eyes were cloudy looking, then he turned his gaze on his partner to see if he was getting his leg pulled again. It was a favorite ploy of the American. "In or out of the casket?" he asked blandly.

"On top of the sarcophagus."

"That's not funny."

"Neither was hearing that you were four and a half quarts low on blood."

Illya ignored the feeling of panic that engendered. "I survived."

"Still reflect in mirrors, too," Solo reassured him lightly.

"I'm hungry."

Now that sounded like the partner he was used to.

Two hours later, the two agents were on the way to the airport. Illya still looked a bit pale, but he felt much better than when he first awakened. His blood analysis finally came back and there were traces of an unidentified compound in his blood. It was the opinion of the doctors that this accounted for the length of his sleep after the transfusions and for any continued lethargy he felt. They sent samples by courier to New York in case the lethargy continued and an antidote was needed.

Illya awoke the next morning in his own apartment with a feeling of being watched. He checked all his security measures, looked out the window and tried to shake off the feeling. He looked at his face in the mirror after his shower. He looked tired. He'd talk to the labs after he checked in to UNCLE NY HQ this morning and see if anyone had started looking for an antidote. He didn't like feeling this tired with no reason.

He ate breakfast, perusing a new article in one of his scientific journals. Thump. He jumped; reached for the gun he wasn't wearing and took a quick survey of his apartment. The window? He eased over to the small aperture and looked out. On the fire escape just outside there was a small fuzzy brown lump with leathery wings. It seemed to pull itself together, shake its small head and get to its feet, using the thumb hooks on its wings to help. It turned toward the window. That was an ugly face. As it waddled to the edge of the landing, he realized he knew that face. The bat took wing and headed for shadows while Illya was trying to correlate one small vampire bat with early morning in New York. His appetite disappeared.

Napoleon Solo, well groomed and as debonair as ever, entered UNCLE's New York headquarters through the secret entrance in Del Floria's dry cleaning shop. The lovely young lady at the desk just inside the hidden entrance pinned his customary badge to his lapel. The badge acted as a passport through the many levels of UNCLE's security. A second very attractive young lady met him in the hall leading to his office.

"Mr. Solo."

"Yes?" He looked the redhead over appreciatively. "Miss Nerjini, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin would like to see you. He's in the lab. He said you'd know which one."

"Ah, yes. Thank you." His eyes lingered on the retreating figure of the woman, but his thoughts were on his partner. Why in the world would Illya want him in the lab unless the mystery content in his blood   
sample was worrying him. Napoleon, all consideration of possible dalliance evaporated from his thoughts, headed to the lab level.

"Illya?" In spite of Mr. Waverly's insistence that partners should maintain a working relationship and no more, he couldn't quite conceal the concern in his voice. The man looked tired. "Weren't you supposed to take a couple of days off?"

"Probably," the pre-occupied Russian agreed. That was a bad sign.

"The lab counts as R & R?"

Illya looked up from the notes he was studying. "No." The response was blunt, but no more so than usual. He frowned at his partner. "What would you say if I told you that the substance they couldn't identify was a virus?"


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon stared at his partner. "A virus?" The questions in his mind were spinning. There were viruses in the world that were fatal, that were forever, that would put a field agent into retirement immediately. Hepatitis C was permanent. Genital Herpes was permanent. What wasn't Illlya telling him?

Illya nodded. "An unidentified virus. Medical is not happy. The bio labs are ecstatic. If I am lucky, my system will replenish my blood supply faster than it is collected in little vials to study."

That certainly explained the Russian's almost surly attitude. "Is it .. Wait, if they don't recognize it … how do they know it's dangerous? We live with viruses and bacteria ..."

Illya sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "They don't." He sounded tired. "I am anemic due to blood loss … which the quantity of study vials is not helping at all. But … " he broke off as though that continuation was unintended.

"Anemia. That will keep you out of the field for a few weeks while you recover." Nod. "But you have other symptom?" Nod. "Inconsistent .. they come and go." Nod. "If you tell me they're worse after sundown … " he began with a grin. Was that a flicker of fear in the pale eyes? "My office in an hour. I'm on my way to see Waverly now. Be there."

As he walked down the corridor to Waverly's office, he ran over the scenario in his head again. They needed to find Chernin and the mystery woman before the Russian put too many factors together and reached an impossible conclusion. Whatever he was suffering from had to be an experiment. Solo stopped at that thought. Could a virus cause … he shook his head. No. Probably not. Damn.

"Ah, Mr. Solo. You're late," Waverly greeted him with a nod.

Solo took a seat looking at the petite dark haired woman sitting across the table from him. "I stopped to look in on Mr. Kuryakin. He's unhappy about the amount of blood being drawn." Did her dark eyes actually widen at his comment?

"Madame Lurelia Otskovich Drakoci, this is Napoleon Solo, one of our top field agents."

Wide dark eyes rimmed with long black lashes and lined with heavy black smudged kohl looked him over with an intensity he found difficult to ignore. Her finely arched brows rose slightly before she spoiled the arrogant once over with a practically gamin grin curving her carmined lips. "Mr. Solo," she greeted him, her accent caressing the syllables of his name. "I understand your have an agent in distress from an encounter."

Solo looked to his boss who nodded again. "We have an agent who was stabbed and left in a mausoleum. He lost a lot of blood and took longer than anticipated to recover from the incident."

"He has dreams?"

Something in her rich voice caught him then. "Dreams? When he first awoke, he said he had experienced some dreams, nothing since that I am aware of."

"He is American?" She was watching him closely for his reaction.

"Russian," he answered immediately.

"Russian? Ah, what part of the USSR? If he is from Belarus or Georgia or Russia proper, it is possible that his background is not familiar with the area and it's legends. That would be a strength."

"I believe he is originally from the Ukraine."

"That could make a difference. The Ukraine borders on Romania. You are aware of some of the political issues in that area, in the past … some of which became the basis for legends."

"Vampires? We have had our share of being exposed to the area, Mme. Drakoci." He was thankful his tongue did not stumble over her name as he recalled the history of the area including the fifteenth century despot/hero known as Vlad Tepes of the house of Drăculești. "And we're aware of the basis for Bram Stoker's book. We don't believe in that sort of monster."

"No. I don't suppose you do, Mr. Solo. But that does not mean that the shadow of those legends does not lie deep within the mind of your operative. I am here to help … if you will let me." She shifted her look from Solo to Waverly and back. "Yes? No?"

Waverly tapped out his pipe which had burned out. "If you will work with Mr. Solo until you are certain that there is a problem, I have no reason to refuse you. Mr. Kuryakin is a great asset to the organization, one I would prefer not to lose."

"Very well. I may stay on the premises? You have accommodations? The shorter my time here, the better for all concerned and … I am not comfortable in cities," she admitted somewhat sheepishly.

"I'd be delighted to show you to transient quarters, Mme. Drakoci. Bags?"

"Have been delivered, already Mr. Solo," Waverly provided the answer. "Do show Mme. Drakoci to her quarters. Keep me apprised."

"Of course." Solo offered the lady his arm. She smiled at the courtesy and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

She stopped in the door way to look back at the head of UNCLE's New York office. "It may be dangerous, Alexander. I can guarantee only that I will do my best, vous savais?"

The craggy face lit with one of his rare smiles. "I would expect nothing less of the Drakoci," he answered her.

She nodded and continued out with the CEA of UNCLE New York.


	3. Chapter 3

Illya looked around him curiously. He was tired, but he wasn't entirely certain how he'd arrived wherever he was. When did it get dark? Wasn't he supposed to be somewhere? Oh, yes. Napoleon wanted to see him in his office. But, this wasn't UNCLE HQ New York … was it? Why was his brain so stuffy? He snorted at that thought. There were many who thought of him as stuffy. Why was that?  
He leaned against the cool stone of the wall. Stone? What? He shook his head to clear it, drops of water flicking off the shaggy strands. Something moved. He pushed away and faced the sound. When did it get foggy? Why was there water dripping everywhere? When did Napoleon get glowing red eyes?

No. There was something wrong with this. Napoleon had warm dark eyes that … that …

Illya yelled and struck out as the monster reached for him. He struck hard, knocking … Huh? His eyes opened and closed, then opened again to see Napoleon picking himself up off the floor. Blink. Blink. His mouth tasted like he imagined the inside of a bird cage must. Carefully, he pushed into a seated position.

"I need to watch out when I wake you up," Napoleon said with a grin. He didn't like the flush on Illya's face, or the eye widening fear that supplanted it when Illya looked at the woman coming through the doorway.

"Nyet!" the Russian yelled, scrambling to his feet only to keel over unconscious.

Mme. Drakoci looked at the falling blond curiously. "Your agent?"

"Yes," Solo confirmed as he caught his partner before he hit his head on the end table. "Let me get him to the infirmary ..."

"No. It would be better to start here. On the couch, on his side, not his back," she continued as she rummaged through a leather bag. "Ah, yes. This will do. An ashtray?"

Napoleon located an ashtray and placed it on the floor near Illya's head. The smaller man was sweating; great drops rolling off his face and hands' soaking his shirt. A scowl darkened his face as the woman struck a match and set fire to some dried herbs and paper in the ashtray.

Words Napoleon did not understand rolled off her tongue as she gently waved the smoke into Illya's face. She watched him closely. "Mr. Solo. Hold him. Swiftly."

The dark haired agent barely laid hands on the Russian before the latter started flailing and bucking to get away from the smoke. Mme. Drakoci's voice deepened, the words continuing to stream from her, the smoke twisting into fabulous shapes as he held onto Illya. Within a few moments, the agent calmed and shifted from unconscious into a deep sleep.

She covered the ashtray to stop the burning, nodding to Napoleon. "Let him go. You might get your infirmary people to take him down. He will sleep for several hours now."

"What was that stuff?" Napoleon demanded as he placed a call to the infirmary.

"Herbs, a couple of incantations written on special paper. No, I do not think Mr. Kuryakin has been bitten by or is turning into a vampire, Mr. Solo. You're superior mentioned another organization, one that uses scientific methods to induce people to do as they wish. I believe this is an attempt to subliminally harm your agent. I must do some research to see what they might have used to help them imprint certain suggestions on the young man. If you will excuse me. I will meet with you later. Take care."

Napoleon took a deep breath and let it go. He deliberately relaxed all the tense muscles he could find in his back and neck before calling the infirmary. Illya wouldn't like waking up there, but it would be better than leaving him on the couch. Blanche answered her warm southern accent efficient without being cold. He relayed his request.

Blanche sighed on her end. "We were certainly concerned when Mr. Kuryakin released himself from our care. I'll have … he's asleep?"

"Yes."

"We'll try to be discreet about it, Mr. Solo."

A few minutes later, a small team of medics arrived, not being particularly discreet at all. They cleared the hall and cautiously entered the CEA's office. The team leader nodded to Napoleon as he gave instructions to his team. Napoleon grinned as he realized they were running a practice drill to cover the pickup. He gave Landry a nod as they carefully loaded the sleeping agent onto the emergency gurney, running fake IV lines and continuing to feed information through their communicators to Medical. That was certainly killing two birds with one stone.

Speaking of birds. Napoleon's amused look faded as he focused on what Mme. Drakoci said. It certainly made more sense to look at THRUSH as the author of his partner's woes. He considered who to talk to with Illya out of the picture for the moment. Surely there was someone in their intelligence collation team. Dorothea Haggarty. Oh hell. Did he still owe her dinner and a movie?


	4. Chapter 4

Dottie H, as Ms. Haggarty was affectionately known in the bowels of UNCLE New York, looked up from her desk and a staggering stack of report files to see an infrequent visitor. "Well, to what do we owe the honor, Mr. Solo?" She stood as he entered her crowded office, stopping just inside the door to survey the bookshelves occupying the walls and the stacks of reference works spreading out from the shelves to cover three small tables, both of the guest chairs in front of her desk and a couple of what looked like library restocking carts.

"Dorothea."

She laughed. "So formal," she purred, remaining behind her desk. "When did I drop back to Dorothea from Dottie?"

"When I missed our dinner date?"

She chuckled at that. "Napoleon, you're field. Things happen. You'll catch the rain check one of these days. Besides, the guilty pleasure of watching old movies with the real deal is worth the wait. Now, what can I do for you?"

He let his eyes slowly wander down and up over her trim figure before answering. She rolled her eyes over that, eliciting a genuine Solo smile with her reaction. Dottie was something of an enigma to him, neither forward nor coy about her interest; yet never exactly forthcoming about whether she appreciated him only as a friend. Since she was a co-worker, and he fully enjoyed their occasional old movie outings, he was loth to press the issue.

"I'm looking for any hints about biological interests by our opposition."

"OK. What sort of biological? Behemoths or amoebas?" She picked up a half filled steno book, flipped to a clean page and started making notes.

"Viral."

She looked up at him. "Viral? That sounds … hmm." She sorted through the stacks of folders on her desk. "Jorgenson, Jorgenson … Jorgenson!" she set one file aside, then pulled six more out of various stacks.   
"Victoria Adele Jorgenson, no relation to Christine. MS in Microbiology. Ph. D. in cellular. Epidemiologist. Specializing in tracking historical pandemics and epidemics, looking for psychological changes in survivors; both those surviving the disease and those who were resistant. Picked up by the DOD just after graduation in '66."

"And?"

"Patience is a virtue," she singsonged at him. "Ah, here it is. Confined to the T.H. Rutherford Universal State Home in Denver, Colorado after she attempted suicide late last year."

"T.H. Rutherford …" Napoleon started to repeat.

"THRUSH!" they finished together.

"Damn. Wonder if it was suicide?" Dottie voiced Napoleon's thoughts. She pulled the files together and handed them to him. "Make sure they're sent back to me," she reminded him as he turned to go. "Maybe we can catch Singin' in the Rain when it shows at the Bijou in three weeks … if you're not busy, of course."

He turned back for a moment to smile at her. Damn, that brightened her day. Then he was gone. Now all she had to do was figure out where the Bijou was and whether it actually showcased older movies.  
Napoleon retreated to his office where he scrutinized the files. Jorgenson's work was inclined to put him to sleep. The picture attached to the file was surprising. Dr. Jorgenson was tall, slender, furiously red haired and frightened looking. He frowned at the picture. Yes, there was that "deer in the headlights" look of someone surprised. Yet the photo, taken in what looked like some sort of lab, showed nothing the woman could fear.

Unless it was the photographer she was worried about. He flipped through the files again. No indication of who took the photo. Most people didn't take color photos unless they were serious about the art. That could narrow down the number of people who had a camera that handled color film. He checked the back of the photo for any indication of where it was processed. Nothing. That left figuring out where the lab was.

His phone rang once before he picked up the handset. "Solo. … What? I'll be up in a minute." That was convenient. The Berlin office had located Chernin. Dead. Waverly wanted to see him now.

Napoleon joined his boss in time to see the live feed of the area where Chernin was found. It still amazed him sometimes how the organization put things like broadcast cameras to use to transmit information swiftly. Chernin lay in a dark area. The techs noted it was blood, although they were not certain it was his blood. The body was a mess and the pool was entirely too neat. A close-up of the body made his stomach churn.

"What happened?" he asked.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say he was savaged by a bear. There are parallel scores all up and down his torso, mostly on the thoracic area. He was laid open down to the bone across the rib cage, and into the viscera lower down." The medic answering poked at the almost raw hamburger consistency flesh of the abdomen, pulling pieces aside and shining a light into the ravaged cavity below. "Actually, it looks like the organs may have fallen out and been replaced."

Napoleon swallowed bile and looked away from the display. "Animal?"

"Probably. Although it would have to be a pretty big and very angry animal to have done this. There's nothing missing that we can tell here. We'll know more after an autopsy. Anything else, Mr. Waverly?"

"No. That will be all for now." The screen went blank. "Are you all right, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes. I may have a lead, sir. With Chernin gone, I'd like to follow up." He placed the file on Jorgenson on the table and gave it a push to rotate it around to Waverly.

"Hmm. Yes. This is interesting, Mr. Solo. Given the severity of the situation if THRUSH has indeed found a way to subvert our agents easily, I want you to get there immediately and see if you can pick up her trail. Very good research, Mr. Solo."

"I'll let Ms. Haggarty know, Mr. Waverly. Anything else, sir?"

"Not now. I'll have Medical keep you abreast of Mr. Kuryakin's progress."

"Thank you, sir." He turned and left. Three hours later he was on a flight to Denver to see what more he could find out about Dr. Jorgenson.


	5. Chapter 5

It was while Napoleon was contemplating charming the stewardess who seemed quite content to be charmed, that he finally caught the problem with Chernin. If the organs looked like they fell out, or were yanked out, and then replaced in the body cavity, the death was not a run in with an animal. Damn. Why didn't he catch that while he was in Waverly's office? Remembering the graphic transmission, maybe he wasn't that off given the mess he was looking at.

He made a quick note to call in and confirm that it wasn't a random animal attack when he arrived in Denver. Something in the recognition that this was a murder and a brutal one put him off his stride. Instead of continuing the light flirtation with the delightful young lady passing out drinks, he continued in a dark study, gazing out the windows as they lifted into a cloud bank. Fog. Something about fog.

"Mr. Solo, we've arrived." A gentle touch on his shoulder awakened him from a surprisingly deep sleep. He sat quietly for a moment getting his bearings. Yes, Denver. He flashed a smile at the attendant and stood up, stretching and reaching for the overhead compartment that wasn't there. What? Looking at the padded seat he noticed an old-fashioned carpet bag. His hand automatically reached down to pick it up. The tag attached to the handle by a piece of twine read N. Solo, Museum of Natural History, New York. Of course, that was his cover.

He settled his hat firmly and joined the stragglers getting off the train.

Outside, the air was clear if a little thinner than he was used to. Oh, yes. They were calling Denver the Mile High City in honor of its location on a plateau in the Rocky Mountains. Now, to check into the hotel and find his contact.

The world shimmied around him for a moment. Train? Cover? What the hell was going on? Apparently his feet were convinced they were headed in the right direction so he decided to tag along on the off chance that the world would resolve itself back to … to … Damn.

"Everything proceeding, Letitia?" A tall brunet beauty glanced at the reclining figure in the flight attendant’s care.

"Quite well, Dr. Clare. We're stimulating his dream cycle and adding information as directed." The younger woman nodded to the electrodes attached to Napoleon's skull. "The wave convergences indicate he is accepting the input as reality for the time being." She looked up into the nearly amber eyes of her superior. "I'm not quite certain I understand why we're making him think he's in late nineteenth century Denver."  
Dr. Clare smiled, sensual lips pulling back from very white teeth. "We're setting him up to kill that monster Kuryakin, of course. We will feed him the information he needs to determine that his partner is a monster, and how to kill the monster. Then, when he sees Kuryakin again in New York, or wherever, he will evaluate the situation and will not hesitate to do our bidding."

"Isn't he on record as liking the Russian?" Letitia asked uncertainly.

"Oh, yes. And that works in our favor also. To save his partner's soul, he will destroy the rotten little bastard. And then his own people will destroy Mr. Solo, because he will be mad and they will lock him up forever. Two birds, one stone, as the saying goes."

Letitia nodded her understanding. Solo and Kuryakin were both good field agents, but their record when working together was enough to make the High Council tear its collective hair out. They needed to be stopped. Just putting a bullet in each of their head would have been enough for Letitia, but this way, they could get needed data on the brainwashing process and destroy their enemies. It really was a magnificent plan.

She touched the gun holstered against her right hip. Of course, if the process failed, there was always her preferred method.

Illya dragged himself out of a morass of maddening dreams to find a dark haired woman sitting in the chair where he expected to find Napoleon. Puzzled, he pulled himself together. After all, Napoleon had more to do as CEA of UNCLE New York than to babysit a damaged agent. He scowled at the woman who looked up and smiled at him. Something with millions of tiny frozen feet took a quick tour of his spine.

"Illya Kuryakin, I am pleased you are awake." Her accent placed her as Eastern European; Hungarian or Romanian.

"Why am I here?" he demanded gruffly, reaching to throw back the covers to get up. The needle from the IV shifted uncomfortably. "Why are they always attaching me to these things?"

"Perhaps dehydrated agents are not as useful," she answered him in fluent if accented Russian.

"You are not Russian," he shot back in Romanian.

She laughed. "No. But I've lived there for a long time. You speak the language well," she complimented him while admitting that Romania was not her original home. "Shall we continue in English since we both use the language well?"

Illya nodded. "You know who I am ..."

"Lurelia Otskovich Drakoci," she filled in the blank for him. "You're Mr. Waverly asked me to consult on this issue. As you may have concluded, I am indeed a descendent of the Drăculești, through Vlad's brother Radu by a chance met wench." She read his shielded look correctly and nodded. "Yes, she was not particularly willing in the encounter. Radu was a man of his time and his upbringing. Still, the bastard son of a prince conferred some status to the child. And his grandson … ah, but that is another tale for another time. My concern now is you."

"I am not a vampire," he practically growled.

"Of course, you are not. But someone has been at pains to try to induce you and your organization to believe that you might be. While you're scientifically trained conscious mind denies any possibility, and you are a very rational being, Mr. Kuryakin; your unconscious, steeped in your experiences as a child and fully aware of the mythology of Eastern Europe, is not rational at all and has been deliberately stimulated to bring forth some of the most deadly legends the world has known." Her bright eyes watched the suppressed play of emotion on Illya's face as he listened to her.

"There are no such monsters," he denied, meeting her gaze firmly. No, but there were monsters out there. Monsters who put a reasonable face on pogroms designed to eradicate whole peoples who would not comply with social orders; or who simply disagreed with policy. The monsters of legend were easier to combat than the ones who smiled and looked oh so human sometimes.

"No, there are not," she agreed with him. "Still, there is the unidentified virus in your bloodstream and whatever else may have been done while you were unconscious. You're medical personnel have detected traces of several herbs and two chemicals they cannot identify." She smiled again. "You're enemies have targeted you, my friend. I am here to make certain they do not succeed."

The unease that had waned returned full force. For no reason he could find, this woman terrified him on a deep level. Where was Napoleon?


	6. Chapter 6

"Drakoci? What do you mean she's in the United State? How the hell … Who helped her? Find them and bring them to me." The dark eyes of the man demanding answers raked his underling in a most unfriendly manner.

"Immediately, sir." The young man turned and collided in the doorway with a beautiful blond woman dressed in a silk trouser suit. "You're pardon, Madame," he stammered in heavily accented English before bolting past her and down the hallway.

"Diamene, what brings you here?"

"I dunno," she drawled. "Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice. You know what it does to me." She walked across the thick carpet, hips swaying, lips curved in a smile that was only for the man in front of her. "I hear you lost one of your pets." She stopped scant inches from him, her eyes traveling from his thick dark hair down his arrogant, tanned face to come to rest on the collar of his uniform. She raised her hands and placed them on his chest to either side of the row of golden buttons holding the jacket closed, a dreamy look on her heart shaped face. "Mmmm … buttons," she sighed. "And you just know what I like to do with buttons." She let the tip of her tongue show as she licked her lips and met his eyes again.

"The Drakoci is gone."

That sobered her slightly. "Hmm. Really? Now why would she wander off? It's not like you don't treat her nice, for a pet." The final words were harsh. "Oh, maybe that was it. I did try to tell you," she continued, turning away and heading for the doorway. She stopped and looked back over one shoulder, tossing the thick blond hair out of her way as she did so. "You do want me to get her, don't you?"

He crossed the room swiftly, catching her arm in his hand and turning her back toward him, crushing her in an embrace and capturing her mouth with bruising force. Her response was instant and as insistent, one foot catching his ankle as she leaned into him and brought them both crashing to the floor where their passionate embrace and activity was likely to send small tables flying while their accoutrements smashed around them.

She leaned up with a fierce grin. Grasping the bottom hem of his jacket in each hand, she gave a hard yank. Some of those pretty gold buttons parted company, leaping and spinning away across the floor. "I do so love gold," she purred as her long elegant fingers worked the rest of the confining jacket loose in a more traditional and less destructive manner. He reached for her to have his hands batted away sharply. "Not yet," she growled as she treated his shirt with great disrespect, more buttons flying. "You wear too damn many clothes." She shoved his undershirt up before applying her mouth and tongue to his faintly golden skinned belly.

Soon enough, he rolled them over, taking more command of their actions, baring her velvet skin and enjoying her shift and shiver under him. He murmured Romanian, Russian and Chinese endearments as they strove with each other. She caught a small, elegant vase with one hand as the occasional table in their way succumbed to being kicked. "Ming. Original. Pretty." She rolled it under the leather couch for protection as they continued.

Sometime later, as she straightened her clothing and fluffed her thick tousled mane, she regarded the doorway thoughtfully. "Y'know, one of these days, we really should close the door," she murmured softly, leaned over and gently kissed a trickle of blood from the side of his mouth. "Now, where did you say Drakoci wandered off to?"  
"The United States, New York," a subaltern answered, standing at attention in the doorway and completely ignoring his half naked commanding officer.

"Ah, good. I like New York."

6666666666666666666

Letitia frowned at the monitors next to the seat in which the UNCLE agent lay twitching, sweat soaking his shirt. "Dr. Clare," she called softly, alerting the scientist to a need for her presence.

"Yes?"

"He's fighting us. I thought UNCLE agents were more vulnerable. He is … fond of his partner. This should work. But look, he is fighting the suggestions, fighting the trap."

Dr. Clare wiped away the sweat beaded on Napoleon's forehead. "This is Napoleon Solo. Hmm, perhaps we should have let you relax him before we started this. Can you feed the erotic loop into his dreams?"

Letitia's face brightened. "Ah. Of course. Mr. Solo is most susceptible to attractive females." She lifted a tape from the collection on the seat beside her, replacing one of the two subliminal feeds. She undid the bright scarf tucked under her collar like a tie and began to unbutton her uniform shirt. Already she could feel the excitement coursing through her veins as she worked the UNCLE agent out of his wet shirt.

6666666666666666666

Napoleon checked into the hotel, Denver's finest. That was going to make a dent in his expense account. For just a moment, he recalled a man taking him to task over his expenses. The familiar scent of a very specific pipe tobacco … and then it was gone and he was a New York City denizen in Denver, Colorado.


	7. Chapter 7

Napoleon awoke to bright sunlight and the sense of something horribly, terribly wrong. The staring dry eyes of the corpse beside him provided enlightenment. He didn't recognize her at first, as he shot out of the bed, grabbing for and then releasing the bloody sheets partially trapped under the half nude body.

What the hell!? Damn … he leaned in to take a look at the mutilated throat. Bile rose in his throat to be swallowed decisively as he looked around the room and back at the bed. Blood. There was blood, but not nearly enough for her to have bled out here. He leaned back against the wall and ran his hands through his hair trying to think.

Dark hair, laughing eyes and willing, definitely willing; that much he recalled. Still, this was his hotel room, not a room in the saloon across the street. Her clothing was of good quality, mended in places with neat, discreet stitching. Stockings of silk rather than cotton and her shoes were of good quality and nearly new from the look of them. He dismissed the snide comment that they didn't get much wear considering her profession. That wasn't true. He'd seen her take a turn singing in the saloon.

Still, she was dead, had been dead for several hours apparently, and he certainly was not the guilty party; however convincing the local sheriff of that he was not responsible was probably beyond his considerable powers of persuasion. There was no way the coroner … the what? Medical Examiner … Wait … what was he thinking?

Napoleon shook his head, discovered dizzy and sat on the floor. "Medical Examiner … to determine time and cause of death." The walls around him became indistinct, fuzzy … transparent? He struggled to sit up. Something was restraining his wrists. But, that was … he blinked rapidly, trying to pull the world into focus. There was activity, voices, but he couldn't get a handle on what they said.

"Dammit! Don't ..."

The world collapsed in an agony of electrical firing neurons and the sound of a single shot.

Dr. Crane handed the revolver to her assistant with a satisfied sound. "Idiot. That prototype is not yet through testing! The electrical current could have killed our subject. Yes, I know. Mr. Solo is an UNCLE agent, but right now, he is a tool. My tool. Or would have been," she ended angrily. Have him removed to containment. The electrical current may have undone all of my work." She kicked the body of the unfortunate operative as she passed by. "Fools. They give me nothing but fools."

"He's still twitchin'," Alphonse observed as he and Gaston worked on unlatching the wrist restraints.

 

"Indeed he is, mon ami. Indeed he is."

7777777777777

Diamene stepped off the airplane at LaGuardia looking as fresh as when she stepped on many hours earlier in Budapest. Tossing her carefully ordered waves back from her face she looked around for the baggage claim area. Wearing a tailored trouser suit in cream with deep pink accent stitching, she drew eyes; both admiring and wary. Acquiring a skycap to help with her bags, she was also lucky enough to find a taxi immediately. She settled back into the seat, watching the scurry of New York through the windows.

"So, has Drakoci been located?"

"Yes, Madame. She is secreted in a building that holds a gentleman's club, a dry cleaning establishment, and some offices. She does not come out. Many people go in."

"A gentleman's club?" she asked curiously.

"I believe it is called the Masque Club. Much like similar clubs in England, a respite from … the fairer sex, Madame." He sounded like he wished he could recall the words.

"Ah, I understand. It's quite all right. There are many from fine old backgrounds who have adopted the social attitudes of the Old World. You say they go in, many people? Take me there."  
Who was he to disobey the honeyed voice of his passenger?

Del Floria's, dry cleaning and tailoring establishment had survived in the neighborhood for decades. Given the current owner's war record and ties to the OSS, he had been a natural choice to become the front man for the agent entrance to UNCLE New York. Along with agents entering HQ from the fitting rooms, Del Floria's did a brisk business in cleaning and tailoring, so it was not surprising to see a beautiful woman enter the establishment.

Mme. Drakoci entered the quarters she occupied at UNCLE HQ and froze in the act of closing the door. Her dark eyes met limpid blue. Dianeme smiled at her, closing the small journal she was reading and setting it on the desk. The door shut with a snap of the latch falling into place. "What ..." She swallowed and tried again. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," the blond answered in the language of their ancestors. "What? You thought I'd forgotten the language? Romany is as beautiful as any of the romance languages. Although it does give the lie to having traveled unchanged from India to Europe, doesn't it?" She switched to English. "Now, what are you doing here? The United Network Command for Law Enforcement … or Law and Enforcement, that last is a little unclear."

"I came to help."

"Help?" She surveyed the dried herbs, fresh ones and other things strewn about the room. "Garlic, holy water … crossbow?"

Mme. Drakoci sat on the end of the bed. "One of their agents was attacked. He has … a virus, they call it; in his blood. They do not know what it is, yet the symptoms ..." She met the other's gaze directly. "You know the symptoms."

Diamene took a seat then. "Lethargy. Preference for the dark. Confusion … Crane?"

"I believe so. Chernin was involved. He is dead."

Diamene blinked at that. "Chernin is dead? That is not good."

"No. There will be no more information coming out of Crane's organization to us. Diamene, we are all in danger." She looked to the larger woman, worry furrowing her brow.

"You want to know where I stand?" She sighed. "I stand where I have always stood, on my own. But," she held up a hand to forestall the other's comments or objections. "I do not think you will be returning to Dragostani." A chuckle escaped her as the other paled further. "Do not be such a … a fool. We are blood. That is surely worth more than anything Dragostani could do for or to me." She pulled a packet from an inner pocket on her jacket. "Here."

Mme. Drakoci took it with a trembling hand, opened it and nearly fainted with joy. Inside were airline ticket confirmations listing most of her immediate family. Tears trailed down her cheeks as she looked up again. "Radu?" she whispered the name of her middle son, the only one missing from the confirmations.

Diamene shrugged. "Crane has him. He will be along later, if possible. Now, now. None of that," she disentangled her hand from Mme. Drakoci's fervent protestations of gratitude. "You take care of the young man here. I will see to other things. Anything else I should know?"

"His partner went to Denver yesterday. We have heard nothing from him."

The blond became withdrawn at the name of the city. With a nod she exited leaving the other woman to marvel at her luck.


	8. Chapter 8

Diamene stepped into the elevator with an elderly gentleman wearing one of those ubiquitous triangular badges. Her lips curved into a slow smile as she met his bland gaze. "You must be this Alexander Waverly I've been hearing about."

"Er … Yes, Miss …"

"Diamene. Just Diamene."

"Did you need to see me?" It was obvious he did not know who she was or how she was not setting off alarms, but if he had a qualm about being alone with her, it didn't show.

"Actually, I wanted to thank you for your courtesy to my cousin, Mme. Drakoci. I am relieved that she is in your care, however temporarily. I am in your debt." She offered her hand, which he accepted, noting the transfer of a personal card as she let go. "One wish, Mr. Waverly. Just one."

The door slid open. She stepped out with a smile and a wave of her hand before walking away with a confident stride. Waverly looked at the card in his hand as the door closed and his journey to his office continued. He paled slightly. The name was not one to invoke lightly. With a thoughtful nod, he stuck the card in his pocket.  
Diamene continued on her way out of UNCLE HQ, unheralded by the alarm system. As she stepped out of the fitting room, she nodded to Del Floria, smiling again. Yes. She was quite happy with her cousin's current situation. This would give her some time to see if she could get to Mr. Kuryakin's partner in time to be of use.

Denver … Fluid time.

Napoleon shivered in the corner of the white washed cell. He hurt in places he'd forgotten he had to hurt. He couldn't seem to stabilize on 1890 or 1965; both personas were dangerous but only one was real and he was having a difficult time picking the right one. An agent was an agent, right? But if it wasn't 1890, he convulsed again, not as hard this time. Good, whatever had happened to him was wearing off... he hoped.

The agent tried to relax out of the ball he'd curled into. Muscles protested, but he gritted his teeth and continued his efforts. After a while, he was lying flat on his back staring up at the ceiling. The crisp white was getting on his nerves. OK, inventory time. He was barefoot; he wore some sort of loose pajama style pants and a soft loose shirt. None of the things hidden about his person remained to assist him, except the hollow tooth with the transmitter buried in it. Transmitter? Of course, 1965. That was a relief.

He lay on the floor trying to get his bearings. He remembered the flight and the flight attendant. That was about it. Somewhere in flight they'd gotten to him, but how? Maybe the drink? However they did it, he was certainly trapped now. The shimmer of a mild convulsion zinged through his muscles, but wasn't even close to the first few. When it was over, he sat up and looked around the empty room. Empty. No floor covering, whitewashed walls, a barred window and nothing else. The window beckoned. The glass was frosted, but he could open it, pushing the bottom half up to look out at a meticulously maintained lawn, gravel drive and ancient pine trees stabbing skyward not a hundred yards away. The drive cut through the trees. What really struck him was the silence. Not a bird song broke through, not a cricket chirped, not a human voice disturbed the quiet. If this was a THRUSH installation, there should be agents patrolling the perimeters. Of course, the actual perimeter could be beyond the trees.

A scream changed the tenor of things abruptly as a woman dressed much as Napoleon was sprinted across the greensward toward the trees. Long shapely legs carried her swiftly into the shadows. Less than five minutes later, she was carried back by a duo of muscular gentlemen dressed in white scrubs.

She struggled in their hands. Her voice carried to his window as they neared the building.

"No! No! I won't go back! No! I am not crazy! Let me go!" He got a view of a pale face, wide dark eyes and a frantic look. "No one's taking care of my cat!" she yelled as she disappeared from view.

Oddly, it was the last sentence that struck him as sane, unless the cat didn't exist. He turned from the window as the locks on the door clicked and Dr. Crane along with two more male nurses entered the room. 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Montjoy. And how are we today?"

Napoleon looked her up and down, recognizing the same sort of restless energy that many THRUSH scientists and higher ups carried with them. "You look well," he replied blandly. "And I seem to have gotten over the worst of the convulsions."

Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Convulsions?" She consulted the chart on her clipboard. "Your records say nothing about convulsions, Mr. Montjoy," she denied his report. "Come with me."

"And, where are we going, Dr.?" He held back slightly as the two men moved into the room. He held up his hands in surrender and moved forward toward them. They weren't taking any chances. Napoleon padded along docilely, taking note of the white hallways, the total lack of decorations, of anything that could be used as a weapon.

The hallway was nearly as quiet as the outside had been; the only sound from behind one door was quiet weeping and a continued litany of "I'm not crazy". The voice sounded like the woman he'd seen from his window.

They came to a restricted access door. Dr. Crane slid a card through a reader device and they stepped through into a pristine laboratory loaded with things Napoleon couldn't identify and didn't want to find out what they did. Time to make a break for it. As expected, the two thugs were ready for him to try something, just not quite the abrupt fall to the ground and plead for mercy act that left them dumbfounded and open. Napoleon's swift action as they reached for him left both reeling and one unconscious.

Instead of heading out the door, the agent went for the Doctor. Her lack of tension disturbed him as he wrapped an arm around her neck and advised the other man to back off. "Wouldn't want to snap her neck accidentally, would we?"

"Mr. Montjoy …"

"Cut the charade, Dr.; and do you have a name other than Dr?"

"Crane, Mr. Montjoy. We have gone over this every day for the past two months. You are not some sort of super-agent with the unlikely name of Napoleon Solo. There is no THRUSH, no UNCLE. You have never been out of the country, Mr. Montjoy. You have led a mundane, uneventful life as a professor of geopolitical theory at a small university. You have met some publication success. You are unmarried and un-partnered, although there are some who question your sexual identity," she enumerated his life for him in almost a monotone.

The last statement got a snort. "Really, Dr. Crane? The last thing I have ever questioned was my 'sexual identity', as you put it. Sex is a weapon, Dr. Crane, applied when, where and as needed. Nothing more," he advised, making sure his warm breath passed over the very sensitive skin just below her ear. "Would you like a demonstration?" Then it occurred to him where he was and he laughed. "No THRUSH, huh? T.H. Rutherford Universal Home in Denver Colorado. And where would we find Dr. Victoria Jorgenson?" That hit a nerve. Unfortunately, so did the small prototype electrical device that had taken him down earlier.

Dr. Crane glared at the guard as he reached for Napoleon's twitching body. "You were slow."

He flinched. "Take him back, Dr. Crane?"

"No. Put him there," she pointed to a gleaming steel table. "Secure him. Get Isaacs out of here before I gut him. Lock the door behind you."

"Yes, Dr. Crane."

Napoleon was peripherally aware of the click of the lock while his misfiring neurons continued to jolt his body. Dead hooker hallucinations and electrical discharges, this was just not his day.


	9. Chapter 9

The flight to Denver was uneventful. Illya stepped out into the sunshine and flinched. The nearly blacked out sunglasses over his eyes did little to keep the glare from piercing his eyes and causing great discomfort. He fought the urge to dive into shadows, curl up and stay there until nightfall. What was the matter with him? He searched the crowd for Napoleon's dark head, his heart sinking when the other agent was nowhere to be seen.

Wait. What was wrong here? He ripped off the glasses and started at the crowd, all of them turning toward him, all with a drop-jawed grin that revealed elongated canines or serrated looking teeth. No! He howled and shot into the sky, arms covering his face as the sunlight burned into him.

"Wake up! Now!"

Someone was shaking him, demanding his attention. He tried to pull away, to fight them off but something restrained him.

"Illusha, sweetling. Come back to us. You are dreaming. Do not get lost in the dream. Come back. You are safe."

The accent was somehow comforting. Ah, yes. Romany. He knew the sound of the voice. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Drakoci. For a moment he thought he saw a flicker of fire in the dark depths of her eyes, but that was just his imagination. Her smile warmed him. "Madame," he greeted her hoarsely.

"Ah, you are back. Good. If I make the bed work correctly, you will drink tea for me?

He looked suspicious, but her merry chuckle soothed him. "Da. I will drink, if you will join me."

It took a few minutes for the bed to be adjusted. All this new-fangled electrical adjustment made him scowl. Pillows worked as well. She released his wrists from the soft confinement of sheepskin lined cuffs. His scowl deepened at that. He had been restrained. Why?

She caught his look. "You have been delirious for two days, Mr. Kuryakin. You are a very dangerous man when you are awake and yourself."

Illya nodded as he accepted the mug she handed him. Of course, he was dangerous. He knew the damage an agent not in his right mind could do. The brew in the cup was fragrant with herbs that were calming. Just the steaming scent rising from the surface brought him peace, which was odd. Still, the way he felt and what he could just remember of his nightmares, the respite was worth the risk. He took a sip. Bitter and soothing fought on his tongue. Warmth spread through him, showing Illya how cold he was in spite of the thick, non-regulation blanket that covered him.

"What …?" he started the question.

Mme. Drakoci raised a hand to silence him as she took a sip of her own cup. "The virus is active, Mr. Kuryakin. It is trying to make changes within you, generating your illness, as do all viruses. Your medical people are keeping it at bay with a couple of experimental anti-virals; things they were working on as an antidote for other potential infections. They seem to be working for now."

"The … dreams?" He would not dignify them with the title of nightmare.

"They believe short term brainwashing, something that did not trigger your normal counter measures, may be doing so." Her look was worried as she took another sip, encouraging him to do so as well.

"Instead of trying to get me to do something I would not, they encourage … childhood fears?"

"Flawless analysis, Mr. Kuryakin," a third voice chimed in. Dr. Tim DiLorenti stepped into the room, nodding to Mme. Drakoci. He sniffed at the strange scent in the air, following it to Illya's brew. "Hmm … interesting scent. Calmative?" He looked to the woman curiously.

"An old family recipe," she agreed.

"Would it be straining things to request the recipe? I'm always looking for ways to help," he added.

"I will consider it. And now, I will leave you, Mr. Kuryakin. It has been a long day, and I believe there is patient/doctor privacy to be observed. Dr. DiLorenti," she nodded her good bye to the gentlemen and left with a soft swish of skirts.

"Amazing woman," Tim commented as he turned his attention back to Illya. "Well, you actually look better today. Could you be honest and tell me how you're feeling?"

Illya quelled a chuckle. He disliked psychiatrists and their ilk, yet this young man was … well, direct and to the point, unlike the others he'd known. "Better. I am … feeling weak. I am angry about what THRUSH has managed to do to me." The younger man nodded. Oddly, he wasn't taking any notes. "Is there any word when they will be able to clear the virus?"

"Not yet. I do know they're working feverishly to get a cure. That both the items you're being treated with," a look toward the IV bag indicated how he was receiving the medicine, "are experimental. Dr. Jones asked that I convey their apologies for not getting your informed consent, but attempting to cure you took precedent."

Illya finished the tea in silent contemplation. "I understand." Sometimes he wondered at the way UNCLE's researchers tried to scrupulously observe the rules governing experimentation on humans in the United States. 'Informed consent' was such a foreign concept to one raised in Soviet Russia and its satellite countries. "Ask your questions," he prompted the doctor.

By the time DiLorenti finished, he had a fairly clear picture of what THRUSH had engendered using half remembered legends from the dark history of what was called Eastern Europe, probably some movie versions of the same thing and just a touch of the agent's own paranoia. With a clearer understanding of what was engendering the reactions, Illya was confident he would work through the remaining issues easily. The virus was another matter. Fighting it weakened him as would any illness. For now, he was confined to the infirmary, which he hated. Still, the UNCLE infirmary was far better than many places he had been held against his will.

"If you need to talk," DiLorenti said as he moved to leave. "Well, if you won't talk to me, Mme. Drakoci will be here for a few more days."

That left Illya wondering more. The woman was insidious.


	10. Chapter 10

The airport in Denver was a dead end. The flight Mr. Solo boarded in New York developed engine trouble and all passengers were transferred to other flights in Dallas-Ft. Worth. Mr. Solo was not on record as having transferred to another airplane. Diamene thanked the airline official with a smile before wandering off to find a cool drink at one of the small establishments in the terminal building. She needed to think. If Mr. Solo did not get to Denver, he was going to be difficult to find.

However, the visit was not a total loss. She could pick up the scientist THRUSH had incarcerated in their private sanatorium here, taking her back to the Romanian installation. There she would be very useful to them, presuming Dr. Crane had not ruined her already. Really, Crane was becoming so very difficult to work around. She looked up as a shadow feel across the dimly lit table.

"Royke Darnall," she identified the man casting the shadow. "Have a seat?" She gestured to the chair opposite her. "Haven't seen you in a while. What brings you to Denver, or shouldn't I ask?" Her honeyed voice was as teasing as ever.

Darnall sat, his nearly black eyes regarding her incuriously. "Why are you here?" he cut directly to the point.

"I'm retrieving something from our dear Dr. Crane. And you?" The flicker of danger in her voice was not lost on her audience.

"Rumor has it there's a high ranking field agent she's … acquired. I'm here to claim him for Central." The implication was that she should not get in the way.

"Indeed. And should I express an interest in said agent …?"

"That would be … awkward."

"Perhaps we could … negotiate?" Diamene turned up the heat in her eyes, sending clear messages to Darnall that were intercepted by portions of his brain other than the in control, logical bits.

Royke Darnall, assassin supreme and right hand of a member of the Council, ran a finger around the inside edge of his collar and swallowed hard. He'd heard this woman was dangerous, but … damn. He dragged his eyes away from her chocolate gaze and tried to get back his legendary detachment. The heat rolling through him made that impossible, all he could do was endure as thoughts of delightful entanglement ran rampant in his brain. The touch of her cool hand on his lost the fight.

Diamene leaned in close to speak softly into his ear. Her breath a whisper of promise across his skin as she spoke. "Negotiate, it is. Besides, I think you might find what's going on in the … sanatorium … of interest to your superior. From what I hear, Mr. Faversham might not completely approve of Dr. Crane's … experiments." She pulled back to look deeply into the usually flat gaze of the killer. Oh yes, she had him right where she wanted him. She flicked a look up and down his torso; she could practically feel the ripple of tight muscle across his abdomen and chest. Her smile warmed his cold heart.

The limousine ride to the facility ten miles outside the Denver city limits took a somewhat circuitous route, allowing the passengers time to repair their disheveled appearances before disembarking at the front entry. Had they known Dr. Crane would make them wait almost fifteen minutes before opening the security gate at the edge of the property, they might have made different use of the time. However, the delay did allow them to coordinate their plans.

Dr. Crane, in white lab coat over a blue cashmere sweater dress, met them at the entrance. Darnall was not a problem; she could handle him, easily. She fingered the device in her coat pocket, imagining the tall, muscular figure doing the electron dance at her bidding. Darnall would return to his superior as Dr. Crane's dog when she was through with him. The blonde, on the other hand, could be trouble. Both women smiled that saccharin smile that men hated as they greeted each other.

"Ms. Diamene, how nice to see you. I hope the General is well?"

"Of course, he is. He asked me to look in on the … facility here, see how you're doing. He wanted to know why you let that fellow go as soon as you did and whether you were certain the experiment was working. You are monitoring Kuryakin's progress …?"

The faint accusation in the question angered the scientist. "The experiment is proceeding as expected," she practically growled before getting a grip again. "The fools at UNCLE New York are baffled. They have no ability to combat the virus. In 24 hours, anyone who has come into contact with the stupid Russian will be infected as well. Forty-eight hours after that, the majority of personnel will be infected, and it will be spreading slowly through both the city and other UNCLE offices. Quarantine will be far too late to stop us. By the end of next week, the majority of those infected will be subject to any instructions given them, their wills not broken, but dissolved."

"And how will you make certain that this … virus … does not trouble THRUSH? There is an antidote?" Diamene moved into the building, toward the other woman.

"There is a vaccine. It must be administered prior to contact with the infected." Crane allowed herself a small smug smile. There was a possibility that the blonde came into contact with Chernin before he was silenced.

"You fucking idiot." Diamene turned to Darnall. "Get on the radio to Central. Alert them to a potential biological disaster." The sound of several guns being cocked and racked brought her attention back to Dr. Crane. A dozen THRUSH guards in the traditional grey coveralls with an assortment of guns threatened them. She stared directly into Crane's mad eyes. "You're dead," she told the scientist softly as she allowed herself to be disarmed.

It took longer to relieve Darnall of his tools of the trade. From knives to guns, he carried an impressive assortment of weapons hidden about his person. His face was immobile as he allowed the items to be removed. Crane lost patience.

"Strip him!' she yelled, avoiding looking at him as she turned and headed back into the building. ”Bring them to my lab."

Diamene watched the minions strip Darnall down to his briefs, a faint smile curving her lush lips. My, he did strip well. Hmmm. Maybe she should have been a little more careful, he was bruised in a few places she knew very well. The discolorations down the sides of his neck gave rise to snickers among the guards.

She chuckled. "Really, boys? Or are you just jealous?"


	11. Chapter 11

Napoleon roused from his semi-stupor to see two people ushered into the lab by a horde of THRUSH guards. In spite of his sorry state and the mix of drugs in his system, the blonde woman caught his attention immediately. Or maybe it was because of the mix of drugs in his system that he noticed her. Damn. His self-control was shot.

"Why, Mr. Solo. You seem happy to see me," she greeted him, moving across the lab to his side. Her quick look took in the damage Dr. Crane had inflicted. There were lash marks across his chest and legs, raw but not deep. The big question was what sort of chemical cocktail was running in his veins from the IV attached to his left arm.

Dr. Crane entered from the supply room. "Get away from him," she hissed, impressive given the lack of sibilants in the words.

Diamene took a step away. "Doc, you're in big trouble."

"Not if I dispose of the two of you."

"Right. I don't suppose just shooting us occurred to you."

Crane sneered at her. "Just making you disappear won't work. But making you die in an accident will. And Mr. Solo here is just about ready to be an accident waiting to happen. One more dose ..." She pierced the bag for the IV and emptied a large syringe into the two inches of fluid left in the bag. "Odd, it never turned bright blue before," she muttered, then shrugged her shoulders. It didn't matter, they were all dead anyway.

She started releasing Napoleon from the straps holding him to the table. "You see that bimbo there? She's the one who did this to you. She's the monster. You have to destroy her."  
Napoleon really wished the bitch in the lab coat would quit shrieking in his ear. Her voice held the quality of nails screeching across a slate. He really wanted to silence her. He sat up as the restraint came free and made a grab for her scrawny neck. Crane danced back out of his reach.

That wasn't good. She frowned at the bag which was now an interesting shade of cobalt. Diamene's laugh irritated her. "Mr. Solo, kill that bitch!"

Napoleon looked at the blonde woman who returned his gaze calmly. Why would he want to kill that incredible … damn, was it hot in here? He felt like the room temperature had suddenly soared into the hundreds. A sharp pain in the crook of his elbow drew his attention. Why was there a needle in his arm? He removed it, tossing it and the line attached to it aside. Now, for the screeching thing.

Crane retreated toward the guards. "Kill them!" she ordered. "Kill them all!" She fled through the doorway as the THRUSH minions opened fire.

"Well, that's certainly not how I planned this. Mr. Darnall, if you'll get Solo out of here?" Something about Diamene's smile chilled the assassin to the core. Ducking the inaccurate fire of the guards trying not to hit Crane while letting her out of the room, Darnall reached for the UNCLE agent and nearly got decked by the disoriented agent before he could get a controlling lock on one of his arms. Now, how to get him out?

The lights went out. Darnall dropped to the floor, dragging the still struggling UNCLE agent with him. Gunfire sent flashes of light strobing across the room. The assassin took one look and then kept his head and the other man down. This was not his fight.

When the lights flickered back on, the guards lay in tangled heaps about the floor, Diamene looked quite smug waiting for them in the doorway and Darnall didn't need her to indicate they could leave more than once. He dragged Solo to his feet and helped the faltering man to the hallway where the slightly disheveled blonde took the lead, a serviceable pistol tucked in the waistband of her slacks and another one in her hand.

"Please … help me," a small voice called from one of the locked doors. "I'm not crazy. Really I'm not."

Napoleon yanked free of Darnall's grip and headed toward the door, fumbling at his pants as though expecting pockets. Curious, the other two followed him. Given the ease with which Diamene turned the door knob, someone must have left it unlocked. Inside was a dark haired woman, the one Napoleon had watched make a break for it earlier. She cowered back from them.

"Virginia?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Diamene. This is Mr. Darnall and Mr. Solo. We're here to rescue you," the blonde said with a warm smile. "I believe you were worried about your cat?"

"Yes," the younger woman practically squeaked. "Is he all right? He's not hurt?"

"He's fine. I've had someone stop by and make sure he's fed and watered. Why don't we go collect him and then we'll talk." Diamene held out her hand to her. Dr. Jorgenson took the offered hand and allowed herself to be led out to the waiting limousine.

"Oh, dear. I was hoping we'd be allowed to leave without further use of force." Diamene surveyed her dead driver, the bullet hole neatly between his eyes telling her that the bill for cleaning the leather upholstery would be steep. "And the key is gone. Really, Dr. Crane? All right. Darnall, protect these two. If Solo seems to regain his normal composure, the two of you keep Dr. Jorgenson out of Crane's hands. I am really out of patience with that ghoul." She tossed Darnall the two guns she carried. "If you can get the trunk open, there are more arms in there. If you can hot wire the car, go. I'll catch up with you."

"No."

She turned to look at Napoleon who was still obviously under the weather but beginning to look more normal. "Mr. Solo?"

"She's done something to my partner. If she has an antidote, I need it."

Dr. Jorgenson bounced slightly as though containing information. "You know something about this?"

Frightened dark eyes met her look. "She was playing with viral modification. She was trying to break the code that allows a virus to enter a cell and use the genetic material to replicate itself. I'm not entirely certain she was successful."

"Ah. So, all that babble about infections could just be so much … er … babble." She turned to Napoleon. "You're sure he's infected with something?"

Napoleon nodded. "Medical identified a virus … or didn't. They found one but don't know what it does." He skidded to a mental halt.

"And?" Diamene prompted.

"He thinks … he may think he's been infected with vampirism," the agent admitted. Why he felt a bit shamefaced about it, he wasn't certain, but then he wasn't exactly himself at the moment. Amazing how incompetent he felt clad only in pajama bottoms.

"All right. Let's find some clothing and then we're going hunting," the blonde practically purred.


	12. Chapter 12

The quartet re-entered the building, heading for the offices and living quarters. One of the guards straggled out of the lab to see them and halt, wide eyed, staring. Diamene summoned him over. "Hi. I can see you remember me. I think I'd like to see Dr. Crane's quarters and my friends could use a change of clothes. You wouldn't happen to know where Mr. Solo's things are, would you?"

"Of course, Madame."

Wow. Amazing the respect a little ass kicking could engender. The guard led the way further into the facility, stopping at a double door that opened onto a suite of elegantly appointed rooms. A walk in closet revealed a great deal about the occupant, some of which made Dr. Jorgenson blush. Secured in a wardrobe against the far wall, they found Mr. Solo's clothing and weapons along with a set of clothing that would give Darnall a modicum of modesty.

The sound of an engine took them to the window to see a small airplane taking off.

"Bye bye, Dr. Crane. Well, gentlemen, it looks like the good doctor has flown the coup. I'm not sure what else we can accomplish here."

"Find the antidote," Napoleon ground out between his teeth as a cramp practically doubled him over.

"Oh, my. Dr. Jorgenson, if you would check here and in the laboratory... and possibly in Dr. Crane's office. Let's see if there's a medical staff here, Mr. Darnall. Mr. Solo, lie down. We'll see what we can do to alleviate whatever she shot you up with. I thought blue was a bad color."

In the office next to Dr. Crane's, neither as spacious nor as well furnished, they discovered a nervous little man with an impressive array of medical degrees on his overcrowded wall. "Dr. Street," Dr. Jorgenson recognized him with a squeak. The man practically jumped out of his lab coat.

"I – I – I'm – I'm – sorry!" he stuttered, trying to hide in an open corner. "I didn't mean it. I just did what she wanted me to. She … she … oh my god, ohmygod, ohmygod ..."

"It's OK. She's gone," Virginia told him, trying to get him to calm down.

"But she'll be back … she'll …. Oh, God. She's gonna kill me," he ended forlornly and sat on the floor with a thump. "I'm dead. I'm dead ..."

Virginia slapped him. He looked stunned, his mouth working for a while but no sound coming out. "Sorry. You were getting hysterical and I didn't have a bucket of water," she explained and apologized.

"You hit me!" the little man shrieked suddenly, scrambling to his feet and grabbing a letter opener off his cluttered desk top.

Darnall stepped in, removed the letter opener from his hand and stared into the watery blue eyes behind Dr. Street's glasses. "That will be enough, sir."

Street deflated. "What do you want? She will kill me. She'll kill all of us," he assured them, but he seemed a little more in control.

"First, I need to know what Dr. Crane was doing to Mr. Solo. Then, I need the antidote or vaccine for whatever she hit Mr. Kuryakin with. She said, contagious and deadly; but indicated she had something to stop it," Diamene told him, her voice soothing and relaxed. "Can you help me?"

"Of course. She'll kill me when she finds out. You're Diamene, aren't you?"

"It would seem my reputation is running far ahead of me," she answered him with a laugh.

He shook his head. "She's obsessed with you. Doesn't understand you at all, but has collected anything she can on you, copies of files, everything."

"That's … disconcerting. Once we've got the antidote and whatever else we're looking for, could you show me these files?

"Certainly, certainly," he assured her.

"Good. Then I won't have to kill you. That was a joke." She looked around at her companions. Damn, even fully clothed Darnall was impressive. There was just something about well-muscled … she yanked her libido back in line and smiled at them. "He says he can lead us to the antidote. Shall we?"

Dr. Street took them back to the store room in the lab. There, in a small refrigerator, were a number of … numbered vials. "I don't suppose you know what she put in his IV?"

"It turned blue," Darnall supplied.

"Blue? Blue?! Nothing in here would turn saline blue … except food dye!" The little man was suddenly irascible.

"Well, here. Blue." Diamene handed him the leaking bag.

His eyes widened, he adjusted his glasses and stared at the bag for a long moment. "What the hell?" he finally enunciated quite clearly, turning the bag over and dropping color as he stared at the label. "Oh my God! That crazy bitch," he continued in a softer tone. He looked at Napoleon, at the bag and back again. "Oh my ..."

"You said that," Virginia cut in sharply. "Try for a little objective clarity. May I?" She took a look at the label. "Ok, this says Formula 43.5. What's this formula?"

"Experimental." His eyes were still wide and focused on Napoleon as though expecting the agent to mutate into something at any moment. The young woman shook him slightly to get his attention. It seemed to rattle his brain enough to get it chugging again. "Sorry. Super soldier serum … at least, that's what we jokingly called it. She … was looking for the answer to the great military minds and physiques of all time, to use on our guards. She … she was looking for the legendary Aryan, but not necessarily the genetic background the Reich required. Dr. Crane doesn't care what the man looks like baseline, but what she can turn him into, as long as all of that is docile to her."

"So … there should be a log here somewhere? Something that tells you what each variant should do?"

His face brightened. "Of course." He bustled across the lab to a bookcase, smashed the glass without a second thought and dragged out four notebooks, dropping them on the table next to the case. "Ah, here. Thirty three to sixty five." He turned the pages swiftly until he found the description of the formula used on the UNCLE agent and lost color again. "Oh, dear. This is insane."

He handed the book to Virginia who scanned the formula quickly and frowned. "This … She's indicating she took material from a … living corpse?"

"Let me take a look." Diamene read over the microbiologist's shoulder. "Oh … my …" She started to laugh. "Oh dear. Someone was reading alchemical works, wasn't she? All right. The only thing we reallly need to know now, is what she could have combined with this to create a blue liquid." She thought for a moment, aware of four sets of eyes on her, Napoleon striving for confidence as a wave of nausea flowed over him.

She touched her finger to the slow leak on the side of the bag where Crane had punctured it with the needle. It felt a bit oily. She sniffed it. Well, that was interesting. Now why would Crane put an aromatic oil in her formula, unless … "Of course. She decided the formula wouldn't work and to slow us down, she made you sick."

Diamene stepped into the store room and looked around. Herbs. So, the mad Doctor had learned something from the Drakoci matriarch. She quickly pulled together several items in a mortar, crushed the aromatic leaves and flowers, then added hot water from a beaker she had Dr. Street heat over a Bunsen burner.

"Drink this. It'll make you sleep while it clears your system. It won't make you feel better immediately, but you should be fine by the time we get back to New York." She handed the mixture to Napoleon who sniffed it cautiously. "It won't kill you. But if you don't drink it, I might." My, what looks. "That was a joke ..."


	13. Chapter 13

Illya awoke alone and feeling … normal. Mme. Drakoci was not dozing in the chair beside his bed for once. Hunger poked at his stomach as it had not in several days. Several days? How long had he been here? Far too long, he answered the question without real reference to time. The saline drip attached to his arm was nearly empty. He crimped the line with one hand and deftly withdrew the needle from his arm with the other, pressing the small gauze pad to the wound left behind to stop what little bleeding there was.

He was nearly dressed, pulling on his ever present black turtleneck shirt, the soft cotton welcome after the indignity of the hospital gown, when the nurse stepped in to check on him. He scowled at her. Petite and slender in her nurse's outfit, she grinned at him cheekily.

"Mr. Kuryakin, you haven't been released yet," she admonished him lightly. "At least let me check your vitals and then you can … sneak out of here, sight unseen, OK?"  
He nodded his agreement and sat down to let her listen to his heart, check his pulse and gaze briefly into his eyes with that annoying bright little light. "Well, you seem to be fine." She marked his chart, gave him a final smile and left.

Curious, he lifted the chart from the hook at the foot of the bed he was abandoning. He frowned at the declining numbers. The first records were high, disturbingly so. They came down within a few hours. He grumbled silently remembering the almost hourly checks on him and the teas the Drakoci woman forced on him. Although, to be realistic, the teas were not bad and had apparently helped when modern medicine was at a standstill. But now, the last numbers were freakishly low, well below normal for a healthy human male and well below his usual recorded numbers. Yet she deemed him fine?  
He glanced toward the door, catching sight of himself in the small mirror over the washstand and froze. Nyet! This was not possible! Yet his reflection was unmistakably hazy, nearly transparent. Terror grabbed his heart in icy fingers and squeezed hard. NYET!

Illya came awake with a yell, sitting bolt upright and upsetting the tray the nurse was rolling over his bed with lunch on it.

"OK, you don't like rice pudding, I take it," her light voice brought him fully conscious. Seeing his distress, she stopped in mid motion of picking up the spilled lunch. "It's OK. I thought you were awake. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Let me see my chart," Illya demanded.

"OK …” She lifted the clipboard off the hook on the foot of the bed and handed it to him before returning to cleaning up the remains of his lunch. It should be fine," she added as she straightened. Curious   
about his look, she took the board from his hands. That was odd. The ink was wrong. All entries were supposed to be made in black ink, but these were in blue.

She looked back at his blank face. "Mr. Kuryakin." The blue eyes flickered to her face, unreadable. "Someone has been messing with the record sheet. It's not right."

"I know," he agreed in a colorless voice.

"No, I don't think you do, Mr. Kuryakin. These records are in the wrong color ink. There isn't a doctor, nurse or assistant who would do that and do it consistently. All of these are in the wrong color ink. They're not official. Someone has tampered with your records. Let me get the Doctor, OK?"

The youthful voice finally cut through the haze in his mind. Tampered … the records were … Relief and anger in equal parts surged through him. "Da. I would like to see the Doctor. And find out who has had access to this room besides Mme. Drakoci." Suspicion colored his thoughts. He had been right to worry about that woman from the beginning.

Speak of the devil. As the nurse left, Mme. Drakoci entered with a quiet swish of her long skirts. She stopped as Illya's angry gaze swept over her. "Something is wrong?"

He would have tossed the clipboard at her, only the nurse had taken it with her. "Someone has tampered with the information on my medical chart. The readings are … very low." He watched her closely for a reaction. The smile of understanding was not what he was expecting.

"Someone has been reading modern vampire fiction."

"What?"

"There is a modern theory in fiction that vampires are actually alive, just …" She stumbled trying to find the English for her thoughts and switched to Romanian for clarity. "That the vampire has a very very efficient biology, respiration and circulation that are much below that of a normal human. Someone is familiar with this theory … but …" Her forehead furrowed in thought. "And I am the one with the most access to you. Mr. Kuryakin, I have no reason to … play with your head, I believe the idiom is. Alexander asked me to help you. I owe him … my family owes him. If we did not betray him before, we will not do it now, you understand?"

Much as he wanted to find falsehood in her words, he could not. The truth of loyalty to his boss was laid bare in her searching look. He lay back against the pillows, already tired. "This is going to kill me," he answered her.

"No, it is not," a firm voice from the doorway answered him. "We're still at a loss to figure out exactly what the virus does, but we've found a way to kill it. Give me your arm. Two shots of this today, and you should be clear tomorrow."

"Excellent," Waverly's voice followed on that pronouncement. "Mr. Solo will be in late this afternoon. As soon as you are both cleared, I have an assignment for you. Mme. Drakoci, come with me, please."  
She turned a warm smile on Illya before joining Mr. Waverly in the hallway. "So, your people have found the cure."

Waverly nodded. "We will have to make certain that there is no infection beyond Mr. Kuryakin. Dr. Crane boasted that it was highly infectious." He looked down into his companion's dark eyes.

"Indeed. Then we should by all means have me tested immediately, yes?"

Her answer seemed to satisfy him. "Everyone will be tested who has been in contact with him since his return. The anti-viral is experimental, but works on the virus in the lab. We will hope it is as efficient in the human body." He left her at the next office. "I will see you for dinner, Mme. Drakoci. We need to talk."

"Of course." She watched him walk away, wondering exactly what they needed to talk about. She had not yet told him of Diamene's generous gift of her family's freedom. Or that her son Radu was in danger. Such an interesting life her husband had left her. Or was that her ancestors?


	14. Chapter 14

Napoleon slept through much of the flight home. He'd left the sanatorium in the capable hands of UNCLE Denver. The other patients were being identified. Three of them were legitimate and were transferred to a privately run facility with the consent of their families. Of the six remaining inmates, three might never recover from what Dr. Crane had done to them; one was adamant that she would see only the doctor and two were caught between gratitude for their rescue and issues of loyalty and oaths to THRUSH.

The report on Waverly's desk indicated that a number of cremated remains were recently interred in the grounds surrounding the facility. Identification would take a while, but there were three rooms in the back that showed signs of habitation. The Denver office was doing its best to match things up. Dr. Crane apparently had a reputation for disposing of her assistants for vague reasons. When Dr. Street arrived with Napoleon and Diamene, he was quite willing to tell them who the remains belonged to.  
Napoleon reported to the infirmary to get checked out. He was feeling much better after the long sleep and looked in on Illya who was also being released. "So, my hopes of getting to partner a vampire are being dashed, are they?"

The Russian scowled at him. "There are no such things as vampires. Besides, if I was a vampire, you would have too much competition for the ladies, yes?"

Napoleon snorted. "Maybe. So, what's the plan?"

Illya shrugged his shoulders. "We see Mr. Waverly, he tells us about what we need to know, we go blow things up," he responded blandly.

"It's a plan."

They made their way to Waverly's office and entered to see Mme. Drakoci and Diamene already seated at the table. Mme. Drakoci looked like she might have been weeping, but her eyes were dry now. Diamene was as self-possessed as Napoleon remembered and looked right at home in an expensive black silk trouser suit with a richly embroidered red shirt and stylish red stiletto heels. She smiled as Waverly greeted them and waved the two men to chairs opposite the ladies.

"You've met Mme. Drakoci previously," Waverly nodded to the dark beauty. "This is her cousin, Diamene Drakul." He correctly pronounced it in the Romanian manner as dra-kool, instead of the Anglicized Dracula. If he noticed the reaction of the two men, he ignored it. "Miss Drakul is currently involved with this man, General Gavril Dragostani." A picture of a man who bore a striking resemblance to Napoleon showed on the projection screen. His hair was worn a little longer than the agent's and he sported a heavy mustache and a deep tan.

"He's also a little more … uhm … muscular," Diamene said with a laugh in her voice. "He's been letting Dr. Crane have the run of the place because the THRUSH High Council has threatened decimate the village he comes from. We're a loyal people. Whoever sits the throne is welcome to it, but threaten our people and … well, we do what we have to, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. Crane's lost her mind, what little she had."

"And she has my son," Mme. Drakoci added quietly. Her look begged them to do something, although she was aware that there could be problems with UNCLE agents behind the Iron Curtain. "I know, I am asking a great deal. I will help as much as I can."

Waverly changed the picture to a spread out bunch of buildings. "This is the Haidaul Satrapy. We received information from Mme. Drakoci's cousin yesterday that Dr. Crane is back in residence here."

"Cousin?" Napoleon asked.

Waverly smiled. "Mme. Drakoci's family, ten of them, immigrated to the United States this week. Their papers at both ends were in order, as were their … er... hem … bribes. Four of her children and two sisters, two brothers and two cousins entered the US through the Ellis Island customs facility. The Russian consulate has requested copies of their permissions, but nothing else, so far. One her cousins brought photos and descriptions of the Satrap buildings and presumed mission. Dr. Crane is there now. At this time, Dr. Crane is unaware that Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin are field certified. She is still under the impression that UNCLE New York is quarantined until further notice."

"And she will remain under that impression with some help from Gavri … The General and some more members of our family," Diamene chimed in.

"Our?" Illya picked up on the possessive term.

"Yes. Luri and I are … related. Her ancestor was Radu Drakul, brother of Vlad the Impaler. I'm more direct line descent, as it were." She didn't laugh, but he could hear the pride in her voice.

Illya looked from one woman to the other and was quietly impressed with both of them. "THRUSH thinks we're both incapable of coming after them."

"So, how do we keep them that way and get to the problem?" Napoleon asked. It wasn't like UNCLE had an office in Bucharest that could step in and mop up the operation.

"The Russian Consulate will find problems with the papers we sent them. Iancu and Sorin Antonescu will be requested to return to Romania until such time as their emigration status can be cleared. They bear a remarkable resemblance to Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin. At least, they do now," Waverly pointed out as the pictures on the screen changed again.

Napoleon grinned. "Looks like we're Romania bound, my friend."

The Antonescu brothers arrived with emigration officers at the Russian Consulate about noon the next day. They were treated respectfully by the American personnel, not so much by the Russians. Still, the paperwork showed an honest mistake had been made, regardless of the iron fist of the Soviet machine. The Americans provided for the flight back to Bucharest where the men were met by a contingent of General Dragostani's men who were also providing transport for the General's … woman.


	15. Chapter 15

"Well, boys … good to see you. How have you been?" Diamene greeted the soldiers send to escort her and the Antonescu brothers to the General.

"Doamnă," the Sargent greeted her. "We have been well. And you?"

"Busy. You know how these business trips are." She reached into the pocket of her overcoat. "Ah, I knew there was something. This is for your wife. I thought she might like it." She handed a small box to the Sargent which immediately disappeared into the pocket of his coat. Diamene smiled and nodded to the rest of the men before climbing into the front seat of the truck.

The returning emigrants were shown into the back with the rest of the troops. Napoleon effected to have lost his voice since his Romanian was not nearly as strong as Illya's. Luckily, the men with them were not inclined to talk during the hour drive to the General's place. Once there, Diamene and the two men were escorted to the General.

"I see you got your coat fixed," Diamene greeted him with a purr in her voice, her eyes roving over him in delight. "I do like a man in uniform ..." she drawled with a canary eating grin as she closed the door to his study.

Outside, the Sargent pulled the small box out of his coat, opened it, flipped a switch on the contents and set the box down on the occasional table in the hall. The General should be safe to speak now. He shooed is men down to the kitchen where hot tea and food awaited them. A present for his wife, God rest her soul.

The General looked over the two men with Diamene. "So, you are the ones to save us?"

Napoleon had the grace to look a trifle abashed at that. "We're going to try, General. We'll need whatever information you can add to what we have. Dr. Crane seems to have a lot of support from the THRUSH Council. From what we understand, the Ultimate Computer seems to be giving very high percentages of success to her experimentation."

"Too high," Illya cut in as he wandered around the room. His seemingly aimless steps allowing him to check everything with a small device to make certain they were not being monitored. "I believe Dr. Crane has found a way to suborn someone who works with the computer." Finally he nodded that the room was clear of monitoring devices. He met the General's dark gaze and wondered that the man could meet with them so calmly.

"I do not understand the inner workings of this THRUSH organization. I do not approve of the commissariat working with them. My people labor under enough yokes, they do not need another one. Dr. Crane has taken people from the villages, even from my troops, and I am told it is for the greater good. I do not see good, I see dead men and women, even children. Whatever she seeks, it is not the good of the Romanian people. I am a warrior; tell me where to strike to rid me of these vermin." His dark eyes flashed as he spoke.

Napoleon considered that the man called himself a warrior, not a soldier. Truly, the area was not far removed from its bloody history when the strength of arms was all that carried the day. Sometimes the past was the easier road; still, civilization had a lot to say for itself. They pulled out the maps drawn from the pictures Waverly had shared with them and they got down to the business of figuring out security patrols and how to get into the installation.

Diamene watched and listened on the sidelines. None of the other three seemed to consider her as a useful tool which amused her even as she processed the information they shared. Truthfully, she didn't care about THRUSH or the current ruling regime, but she did care about the General and the people; it was in her blood to deal with invaders. Dr. Crane was the worst sort of invader, one who uselessly squandered her resources, especially people. True, her ancestors had done their share of using up people, but that didn't mean they were quite as bad as Crane. They were people of their time, Crane was … timeless. The blonde's fingers itched to wrap around Crane's throat and end her killing spree.

"How barbaric of me," she muttered with a charming smile. She regarded the men thoughtfully, noting the way the General's ass managed to make his dreary uniform pants mold to his musculature. What a pity the other two were here and they were all occupied with plans. Maybe she could check on the security while they were busy. Quietly, she let herself out of the room.

Half an hour later, plans as complete as they could be, the General looked for the blonde. All three men were surprised she had left without letting them know, or making any sound. Illya surmised the worst immediately only to have his suspicion laughed at by the General. "No, Diamene is not a part of the problem. She probably got bored with our planning and went to … eat."

He called down to the kitchen to bring up food and drink. There were several hours to while away until the wee hours of the morning when security was most inclined to be lax at the THRUSH compound. Diamene returned with the servant bringing the food.

"Good news. Dr. Crane is in residence."

Illya's inquiry into her sources was cut by the sound of gunfire outside. All three men reached for their guns. A private came pelting down the hallway to report.

"General, we are under attack. Many men from the experimental station. They …" He coughed once, looked puzzled and dropped. Behind him several men armed with the futuristic looking THRUSH rifles were advancing toward the study.

Diamene pushed the body aside and pulled the door closed, locking it. "Looks like the enemy has the jump on us."

Napoleon checked the windows and doors leading out onto a narrow balcony with stairs down to a dead garden. "Company here, too." He watched curiously as the General ran his hand down one side of the fireplace molding, pressed a hidden catch and was rewarded with a click. A section of wall slid back.

"This Romania. Hidden passages are always useful." He gestured for Diamene to precede them, then the UNCLE agents and brought up the rear, closing the door behind him.

The passage angled down for fifty feet, then leveled out. Although narrow, it was tall enough to allow Napoleon and the General to walk upright. After several minutes, Napoleon finally asked how far it went. He heard more than saw the General's wolfish grin.

"Gavri, I'm at a dead end here," Diamene called back to them.

The lever at this end was very well hidden. The door shifted toward them before sliding aside to reveal a dimly lit area with what looked like jail cell doors. "Welcome to my dungeon," the General intoned.


	16. Chapter 16

Diamene giggled as they walked through the dungeon. The cells were empty, supplied with manacles bolted to the walls and straw on the floor. "Really, Gavri? Straw and manacles?"

"One keeps up appearances," came the General's off hand reply. He opened the huge iron bound oak door at the end of the corridor revealing a thoroughly modern security center. "Many of the cameras are … what is the term? Off line." He nodded to several monitors showing snow rather than the sweep of a monitoring run. "However, this one is special." He flicked a switch that brought in a new signal to several of the monitors.

Illya nodded. "Excellent, General. Your system will get us in while they are looking for us in the wrong place." A small smile lit the Russian's face. "It looks like we are clear to enter the Satrapy if we hurry. Napoleon?"

"Right beside you … unless the way gets narrow."

"Diamene."

"Gavri … you aren't thinking of leaving me behind, are you?" She slid a clip into a serviceable looking pistol.

"Someone needs to be here, to warn us when their guards return." He stood close, looking into her eyes. "If necessary, you are back up. Agreed."

"Mmmm. You drive a hard bargain, General." She reached up and kissed him gently. "You better come back. Now get moving. I have a young cousin in Crane's hands and I'd like him back alive, if you don't mind." The three filed out, Illya giving her a last uncertain look as he left the room. Her smile was unsettling as she watched the monitors.

After a few moments, she had a clear view of the trio slipping across the open area and through the doors into the heart of Dr. Crane's domain. Other views showed her the dead and captured soldiers manning the General's headquarters and home. Her eyes narrowed at the unnecessary abuse the THRUSH guards were inflicting, especially on the female staff. There were only three, and two were old enough to be mothers to most of the men here.

Wait. She saw the two older women herded out of the house and toward the installation. Where was Elfreya? The small dark woman was not on any of the cameras and was not … hold it. That soldier at the end of the line of six was very young and small. Diamene smiled. How ingenious of the young lady. She had protected herself neatly from the potential problems the THRUSH personnel presented, and possibly given those five men an advantage. Excellent. Elfreya would bear watching should she survive this.

"Gentlemen, the guards are returning. We have casualties. It looks like about twenty of our soldiers have been taken prisoner. Get moving."

Really, that was about all she could do. Time to join the festivities. She slipped back down the secret passageway and into the house. A groan met her ears as she stepped out of the General's study. Ah, yes. The wounded. Time to make like Florence Nightingale. She headed for the sound and was surprised by two THRUSH guards coming around a corner. Shots were exchanged. Diamene hissed at the bullet catching her across the outside of her right arm before taking out the offending men. A third guard tried to catch her as she darted into the hallway, giving up his attempt as her stiletto heel caught him in the throat to deadly effect.

Diamene kicked off her other shoe and padded over to the bodies further down. Two of the soldiers were still alive. "Let's see if we can keep you that way," she told them and set about binding wounds.  
Illya and Napoleon followed the General into the entry hallway of the THRUSH experimental lab. It looked much like any business with a reception desk and a couple of doors. Gavril took them through the right hand door into a darkened stretch of hall with doors set at ten foot intervals. Guns in hand, they moved quietly toward a double door at the end. Beyond that should be where the experimental subjects are housed.

The door was soundproofed. The noise beyond was surprising and horrifying as screams of pain, yells and crying could be heard from behind what looked like steel cell doors with small grates in them. Illya and Napoleon took quick looks in the grates to see if Radu Drakoci was in one of them. What they saw in some repulsed them. Dr. Crane's experiments had harmed her subjects in indescribable ways. Still, UNCLE needed to find the rest of Crane's notes to determine whether she had or was close to the viral infection she described at the facility in the States.

"Well, well, well. Three little pigs." Crane's voice came in loud and clear over an intercom system. "Welcome to my parlor said the spider to the flies." Her laughter sounded off to her listeners. "Take them."

THRUSH guards sprouted from various doorways. Napoleon and the General returned fire while Illya pulled together a surprise for the opposition. A bright flash and smoke obscured their movement from the remaining guards, allowing the trio to head for where they thought Crane's central office should be. Instead they found a room full of hospital beds of the most basic type filled with experimental subjects, most of them in very bad shape. Illya supplied the litany of expletives in several languages as he scanned the medical data on each bed.

"Napoleon." The Russian's voice was tight.

"Not good?" The American knew that look for the deep and abiding anger it represented. He scanned a couple of the clipboards but couldn't make much sense of what he was reading. "Short form?"

"What she said she had done to me. I think she has done to these people. Most of them are too far gone to save unless there's a specific antidote." His eyes swept over the dozen young people lying on the beds to light on the cabinet at the far end of the room. Dozens of vials were locked in the glass fronted cabinets, all marked with neat numbers as were the ones in the refrigerated unit below them. He grabbed the clipboard off the nearest bed. It was numbered. Now, were the numbers on the data and those on the vials the same, or would he make a horrible mistake?

Someone tossed a grenade in the doorway. The General fielded it as smoke began to pour from each end. He gently returned it to those on the other side, his eyes streaming as he coughed as though his lungs were full of fluid. "Tear gas," he identified it in a strained voice. "Door. Barricade?"

Napoleon looked around and realized the beds were on lockable wheels. The subject on the bed nearest the door was either comatose or dead. No pulse. Dead. Then he wouldn't mind helping barricade the doorway. They rolled the bed over, locked the wheels and braced the door with it. Then he helped the General to a sink to clear his face. His eyes remained swollen almost shut, but his coughing slowed down.   
They braced the door on the other side of the room before the THRUSH guards got to it. Neither had glass in them, so they were safe for the moment.

Crane's voice was an indecipherable squawk over the intercom system.

"I think she's lost it," Napoleon told his partner, frowning at the blond. "What are you doing?"

"Praying that these hold the antidote," he gestured to the vials in the cooler. He nodded to the subjects on the beds. "Most of them are dying, Napoleon. If this is the cure, they deserve a chance."  
"I don't think they're going to get well fast enough to help us," the American observed. "What can I do to help?"

"Match the number on the chart to the vial. Oh, and shoot anyone who comes through the doors who isn't Diamene." Why did he specify the blonde? With a mental shrug he went back to figuring out dosages.


	17. Chapter 17

The pounding on the barricaded doors let up. The General, the swelling around his eyes beginning to go down, looked around at the other two. "They may be bringing up a ram to break the door." He'd barely finished speaking when something large and heavy slammed into the aforementioned double door, pushing it open a few inches and bending the metal. Napoleon joined the General as the door took a second hit.

"We're running out of time," he called over his shoulder, aware that most of the people on the beds would not survive removing them. They had to make time, get rid of the THRUSH personnel … He handed his gun to the General and headed back to Illya.

"I know," the Russian snapped through his teeth.

"No … I've got an idea. They don't know what's in the vials, just that these people are infected with something that's supposed to become contagious; that is killing them." For a moment, his partner did not seem to follow what Napoleon was thinking, then an evil gleam came into the blue eyes and he nodded.

"Here,” the Russian handed him a syringe, marking a level with his thumb. “This much out of each chilled vial to the corresponding number. No, I am not certain it will help." His eyes traveled over the subjects, some of them looking very young. "If it does not, we have done what we can." He handed over the vials and more syringes, then headed for the glass fronted cabinet, smashing the doors to retrieve the potentially deadly serums.

"Any of you understand English," he called as he pulled the small bottles out, grabbed a glass tube with a stopper and started mixing the contents.

"Of course," someone answered through the opening. "You need to let us in before you harm these people."

"Three of them are already dead. The rest are dying of the virus Dr. Crane injected. I have some of the experimental vials here and I am mixing them. I have no idea what she has created in here, but I think my work will make it all the more deadly." He swished fluid in the tube, stuffed the rubber stopper into the opening and walked back to the door. "I prefer to blow things up, you know," he added conversationally.   
"But … well, this is just as good, if not as quick. Could take … hours, even days to complete its job."

There was a distinct sense of unease coming from the men on the other side of the door. "You will die also. This is not the American way."

"True. I am Russian."

There was a sound of retreating feet outside.

"Very nicely done, gentlemen," Dr. Crane congratulated them from the other door which she had quietly pushed open just enough to see into the room. "You've panicked my guards, and probably managed to either kill or give the antidote to my subjects. I knew I should have separated the two items, but the facility wasn't built to handle two viral lab areas. Pity. I've learned enough here to put my plans into action for THRUSH. I could even make Council at this rate. Soon, there will be a reckoning and the UNCLE will cease to exist," she ended harshly, tossing something into the room as she turned and ran away.

"Incendiary!" Illya and the General identified the grenade simultaneously.

It sputtered and popped, then lay there smoking gently. The three men looked at each other and grinned. She'd thrown a dud. Illya scooped it up, walked over to the door and tossed it gently out into the hallway. No sense in taking chances. The boom and whoosh sent him flying backwards as the doors buckled. Flame burst out around the edges of the broken door, smoke curling into the room. So much for the dud theory.

Napoleon pulled his partner back onto his feet before helping the General pull the barricade away from the hall vacated by the THRUSH guards. Carefully, they gathered the still breathing subjects onto three of the beds and pushed them out of the lab and down the hallway toward the front of the building. Smoke was beginning to gather in the reception area.

As they wheeled the beds out, the front of the building exploded, showering the three men and their rescuees with glass, plaster and bits of wood. A figure strode through the dust and debris. Just as all three trained their weapons on the newcomer, she spoke. "My, boys and their toys. Sorry, you were taking a little longer than I thought was good."

"Diamene!" the General exploded. "We could have killed you."

"Doubtful, too much smoke." She turned away. "The General's here,” she called to shadowy figures behind her. “He's got some of the prisoners. Let's get them out before that fire makes it difficult."

Several of the men from the General's command came in and helped get the beds out. They wore cloth masks over their faces to keep the contagion, if any, from spreading. A second explosion rocked the building as they rolled the last bed to safety. Debris showered down on the walkway. A handful of gray garbed THRUSH personnel came scurrying away from the area, surrendering without a fight.  
Napoleon and Illya headed back toward the doors, only to be forced away by flames devouring the entire area. Diamene caught them by the   
arms. "There's no point," she told them.

"There were other … test subjects," Napoleon explained. They both looked back toward the building that was completely engulfed in flame and smoke.

"There's nothing you can do. It's not your fault."

"We should have unlocked the doors on the way in ..."

"And let the contagion loose? Look, I know you're the good guys and letting people die isn't what you do, but for most of them, this is probably a release. A horrible way to go, but still … Crane used people up."

"Uses. Or hasn't she come out?"

"I haven't seen her. Maybe we should check the rest of the installation." Yet another explosion punctuated her suggestion. "Presuming she leaves any of it standing. How hot does it have to be to kill a virus?" She headed off into the smoke now invading most of the area.  
Napoleon lost sight of the blonde immediately. Seeing that the General and his people seemed to have things well in hand, he grabbed Illya and they headed around the other side of the building from the direction Diamene had taken.


	18. Chapter 18

Dr. Crane frantically grabbed journals and clothing, stuffing them into a couple of bags. It was a pity the actual virals were being destroyed by heat even as she pulled things from drawers and cupboards. She knew there was a helicopter outside with a pilot. She had to get out, had to survive. Her theories were borne out, she had the means to drive the UNCLE to its knees and then … the world. She laughed heartily at that thought. A year from now she would rule the world, all the rest of the population would be her helpless slaves, or she would wipe them out.

What a delicious thought. Everyone would do her bidding, whatever that turned out to be. She grabbed the handles of her suitcases turned and dropped the bags, scrabbling backwards, reaching for the drawer of her night stand. She yanked it open, keeping her eyes on the blonde who had materialized inside her quarters. The gun, it had to be here, it had to.

"Looking for this?" Diamene held the gun up by its handle. "I took the liberty of removing it a few days ago. Couldn't let an amateur like you loose with a deadly weapon, now could I?" She dropped the gun on the floor, her smile never wavering.

"What do you want?" They always wanted something, usually money. Lots and lots of money. She would promise anything so she could get out to the helicopter.

"Radu Drakoci. He wasn't with the other subjects."

"Why would you want that Rom trash?" Crane's distaste for the tribes unhooked her brain for a moment. The open handed slap that nearly spun her head on her neck told her it was the wrong question. Blood trickled from her mouth as she turned back to face her assailant.   
"You're in league with the Drakoci bitch, aren't you? Well, she'll never see that brat again."

"Is he dead?"

Crane laughed. "No. He was a success. He's a carrier. The only way to cure him … well, there isn't one."

"And you're not planning on trying, are you?"

"He's a success. Why would I want to cure him? He's perfect. He's already on the flight out, just waiting for me to join him. Poor thing, he thinks his family has abandoned him... that he's a monster." Crane's eyes glittered. "He belongs to me."

"Wrong. He belongs to his family, to me." The last was almost a growl from deep within the blonde. "You have troubled things you do not understand, Dr. Crane. Do not look away."

Crane's gaze drifted back to the other woman's dark eyes; the flames destroying the compound reflected in the depths. Only that wasn't possible, there was no window facing … the … Crane dashed out the other door leaving her suitcase behind.

Diamene sighed. "Mad scientists just aren't what they used to be," she muttered as she headed after the fleeing Satrap head. Now, mad scientist or rescue Radu. Simple decision, she headed for the landing pad at a dead run. That was odd; there was no sound of an engine warming up or blades beginning their spin. She came around the corner of the building to see no helicopter. A wheelchair with occupant sat to one side of the landing area.

"Radu!" she called as she charged across the open grass, heedless of who might see her.

The young man looked around. "Stay back! Please, stay back!" he tried to roll backwards, away from her.

Diamene stopped, cocking her head to one side. "Radu. It's all right."

"No, it's not," he shot back, fighting the urge to let her come to him, to let out all his rage and sorrow in her arms. "Dr. Crane made me a monster. I can kill with a touch now. I was ill, I got well, but it's still with me. Like that American woman who could not stop cooking until they jailed her."

"Radu, listen to me. You are, yes, like Typhoid Mary. But I am immune to the virus. I was exposed, it does nothing to me. Let me take you to my family, we will make a cure. I will let your mother know you are in good hands."

"She hates me!" he yelled back. "She never wants to see me again!" Tears began to stream down his face. "Mama hates me," he repeated softly, the agony of a child in his voice.

Diamene crossed the grass slowly to drop to her knees beside him. "No, oh no … She sent me to find you, to free you … Lury loves you so much, she … No one hates you," she told him gently. "Your mother loves you, more than you can ever know until you have children of your own. Look at me." She met his gaze directly. "I would not lie to you."

The young man threw his arms around her neck and wept. "I cannot … they … it would kill them … Kill me. Don't let me be a monster," he whispered into the side of her throat.

She pulled his frail body into her arms, letting her strength help him as she heard the sound of an incoming helicopter. So, there was a flight out, it just had not arrived yet. She knelt there, holding the boy and waiting; muttering encouragement to him as he let out the terror and fear Crane had engendered. The fire had engulfed the largest building and was working its way through the guard barracks and the resident quarters. She wondered vaguely where Dr. Crane was.

"Come with me." She stood and started back toward the buildings carrying the young man with her. "We will find a way," she assured him as she walked around the far side of the residence, away from the flames. They were headed toward the General's residence when a shot sounded. Diamene jerked with the impact and stopped walking.

"Stay here," she told Radu as she set him down on the ground.

Diamene turned to face the source of the gunfire. Dr. Crane stood there fighting with the pistol which had jammed when she tried for a second shot. Finally she threw the gun at Diamene before launching herself at the woman who was stalking toward her. The collision took them both to the ground where Crane landed a punch or two before Diamene landed one of her own, knocking the scientist back off of her.

"Bitch."

Crane screeched incomprehensibly as she regained her feet and went after the blonde again. "He's mine! Die you monster!"

"Monster?" her victim repeated mildly. "You have no idea ..." Diamene closed with her assailant.


	19. Chapter 19

The General summoned the fire brigade, although it was obvious that without high pressure hoses the compound used by the THRUSH personnel was done for. On one hand, it was a relief as the virus Crane was working on was destroyed. Several of the subjects of her experiments were already responding to the antivirals Napoleon had injected. Two more were dead, the injections too late to help.  
With the help of a the youngest housekeeper, a dozen of the soldiers had overpowered their THRUSH guards and freed the rest of their people before the fire spread to where they were being held. The THRUSH guards were not so lucky. Napoleon and Illya accepted the explanation without demur. After all, there were civilians dead. The deaths of those who contributed to killing them could be considered justice.

The soldiers were put to work wetting down anything that wasn't on fire yet and the outer walls of the smaller buildings that were. Napoleon and Illya set off to round up any stray agents. Crane was not accounted for yet, although there was a good chance she had been caught inside the building as the flames tore through the wooden structure.

Napoleon caught site of Radu sitting on the grass. He realized the youth was watching something and motioned Illya to move toward the still standing rear wall of the THRUSH residence. As they moved further into the open, they saw the helicopter, rotors turning lazily and then they saw Diamene and Crane. The blonde had the scientist in a hold over her shoulders, the woman's back bowed around the Diamene's shoulders. As they neared they could hear Crane screaming, blood soaked her clothing from several wounds.

"Diamene!" Napoleon yelled as she realized the woman's objective was the fire now breaking through the wall. Windows shattered from the heat as she moved forward. She obviously couldn't hear him over the roar of the fire. He looked around for Illya. The smaller UNCLE agent was closer. The Russian tensed to leap toward the women just as Diamene raised Crane over her head and threw her at and through the windows.

Illya brought Diamene down as the wall exploded outward, showering them with flaming splinters. She heaved under him until his voice penetrated the noise and she relaxed. After a moment things stopped falling on them and she wriggled to get out from under him.

"Really, Mr. Kuryakin, much as I find you attractive, that's my back you're on," she teased.

With a groan, he rolled off of her, realizing that great swatches of her suit were missing as he did so. He hoped the dark kept her from seeing his color heighten. She rolled over and sat up, brushing debris out of her hair and grinned at him. The fire was providing too much light to hide his blush. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "We're both adults here. I'm sure you've seen much more on beaches in Rio. Oh hell!"

Diamene shot to her feet and ran to intercept Napoleon who was closing in on Radu. "Solo! No! He's contagious!"

Napoleon looked around, hearing the desperation in her voice, but not the words until she was at his side, breathing hard. "THRUSH?"

"No. Radu Drakoci. He's contagious. He survived Crane's cocktail of virals and now is a carrier. Let me take him."

"And what protects you?" Illya asked as he came up behind her.

She grinned at both of them. "The same thing that protects you, Russian. I'm immune and so are you since you survived a lower dosage of the infection." She scooped the youth into her arms and preceded the men back to the General's home. "Ah, Mr. Solo, would you alert them to the need to place my … nephew in quarantine until I can … what am I saying? Mr. Kuryakin, could you please persuade the helicopter pilot to make himself useful to us? We'll wait here." She leaned against the wall with Radu.

Illya looked to his partner who nodded. While they had been successful in rescuing several of the civilians from THRUSH, they were both feeling a little less than victorious. A few moments later the Russian convinced the pilot to wait and be of service to Diamene, although he had no idea what she was thinking. He returned with the pilot and the wheelchair.

"Why thank you. That was thoughtful." She seated Radu in the chair, pulling the blanket over him as the air was chilly. "Radu, this is Mr. Illya Kuryakin and his partner, Mr. Napoleon Solo. They are field agents for the UNCLE and they have been helping your mother to get several of your family to safety in the United States. Will you keep them company for a few minutes? I need to call … my grandfather and let Gavri know what I'm doing."

Radu nodded. He greeted Illya in Russian, apologizing for his inability to continue in that language; and Napoleon in English. "I am better in the English than in the Russian, yes?"

The two men kept the young man occupied, while Diamene went inside, Napoleon keeping his distance while continuing to exercise Radu's English lessons. The General entered his study to find his phone occupied by a half-naked woman he recognized. The warmth of his jacket settling on her shoulders elicited a smile as she continued her conversation in a language the General did not understand.

"I have a half-naked woman in my study, in my jacket," he murmured as he took her into his arms when she finished.

She leaned into him with a contented sigh. "Unfortunately, the woman has to take her … nephew to her grandfather to keep him safe. Not to mention anyone else here safe. He …" Anger coursed through her as she recalled their conversation. "That woman made him think he was a monster. He asked me to kill him. You understand, beloved? Yes?"

He hugged her gently, brushing his lips across her cheek and leaned his forehead against hers. "Of course. You killed her?"

"Oh, yes." Her voice deepened to a growl. "That one will burn forever if there is any justice."

"Ah, my beautiful warrior. Perhaps you should … mmm … change." His voice didn't sound like the idea appealed to him, but her chuckle made him smile as well.

"I'll be back. You'll have a new uniform jacket and you know how I just … love … buttons," she reminded him with a merry look.

Radu's conversation had tapered off, his eyelids heavy and refusing to stay open, before Diamene, in a fresh dress and boots rejoined the UNCLE agents. Napoleon nodded to her and went inside to report to HQ New York while Illya helped the woman get Radu into the helicopter. The pilot looked her over curiously, possibly figuring that he could disobey his current instructions until she produced a very serviceable pistol.

"Twelve in the clip, one in the pipe, as I believe the Americans put it. I do not actually need you to fly the helicopter," she told him. "However, should you deliver us safely where I direct, you will not regret working for me. Understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am," a very Georgia accent answered her.

"Ah, good. You are an American. I like American's." She turned to Illya as she finished settling Radu into the seat and latching his seat belt.   
"And Russians," she told him in flawless Russian. "I like you very much as well."

"You have a … boyfriend?"

"Da. Gavri is very, very dear to me. Tell Luri that I will be in touch when she and the others have settled in. Don't forget to take the correct papers back so the Antonescu's will be comfortable." She leaned forward and caught his mouth with hers, cool lips and tongue tasting faintly of spice before she released him. "I think we'll meet again, Mr. Kuryakin. Now, I'd best get going."

Illya jumped down and raced away from the vehicle as the rotations picked up. He watched as the helicopter lifted and turned north and slightly east. Given what lay in that direction, he wondered if meeting her again was truly a good thing. At least she wasn't a THRUSH agent. He went back in the house to find Napoleon and the General sharing a drink. The American handed him a glass of clear fluid on the rocks and lifted his own in salute.

"To enigmatic blondes and friends in unexpected places."

"Da."


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so to the end ...

Virus: Epilogue

"So, Mme. Drakoci and family members are settled in Wyoming. The Antonescus are legal immigrants. Radu is being cared for in an isolated village where everyone has been inoculated against the virus he carries. The survivors who are also carriers have been welcomed to the village as well. The others are returning to their families. The dead have been named heroes of the republic, with suitable medals and minor recompense to their families, courtesy of General Dragostani," Napoleon ran down his report to Mr. Waverly.

"Dr. Crane did not survive?"

"Er … no. I'm afraid we were late in getting to the fight she had with Miss Drakul. The latter was ..."

"... understandably angry over the use of her nephew in the experiments," Illya concluded. "He is thirteen."

Waverly nodded his understanding. "The young lady was understandably upset," he agreed. "And nothing remained of the installation?"

"Nothing, sir. We do have Dr. Jorgenson and Dr. Street, however. Both of them have been working on Crane's notes," Napoleon pointed out.   
"Between them, I think we can safely rule out another virus problem any time in the near future, right Illya?"

Illya was looking thoughtful. "Hmm? Oh, yes. I believe we are out of that particular danger."

"Something more, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly asked, noting the Russian's uncharacteristic distraction.

"No. I … We do not know what happened to Royke Darnall, the THRUSH agent who was with Miss Drakul at the institution in Denver. He seems to have just … faded from involvement. I find it disturbing that we have no record of him other than the assistance he gave us there."

"Actually we do have some information on Mr. Darnall," Waverly corrected him. The lights dimmed and the screen lit up with a photograph of Royke Darnall and a smaller, dapper gentleman in well-tailored clothing. "The other man is Giles Faversham, newly appointed to the THRUSH Council. Mr. Darnall is both his immediate subordinate, second in command, and a former member of THRUSH's Assassin Squad. We do not know why Mr. Faversham has chosen Darnall as his second."

"Faversham," Napoleon echoed. "Don't recognize the name."

"None of us do. Our informant indicated that Mr. Faversham has operated in the UK and on the Continent, generally in Western Europe. Our London and Berlin Headquarters have slim files on him. So far, we are unaware of exactly what he has done to get promoted to the Council and we are keeping as close a watch on him as possible." Waverly tapped out his pipe and began to refill it with the aromatic tobacco he favored. "Your report on your interaction with Mr. Darnall is sketchy, Mr. Solo."

"I'm afraid I wasn't at my best, sir," Napoleon agreed regretfully. "Dr. Crane made certain I was below par, so to speak."

"And he arrived with Miss Drakul," Illya added pensively. "Perhaps we could … request a debriefing from her?" He didn't sound enthusiastic about his inquiry.

"Not at this time, Mr. Kuryakin. I understand that she is in Northern Romania with her grandfather, in that village where young Mr. Drakoci and the other victims of THRUSH's experimentation are being cared for. We'll keep an eye on Mr. Darnall and his superior. I think that wraps this up, for now, gentlemen. Take the next two days off and report back on Wednesday. Good day, gentlemen," he dismissed them.

Outside the office, the two men stopped for a moment, each considering what he had passed through in the last few weeks. Both had the disquieting feeling that they had missed something, but neither voiced his doubts as they headed for their shared office and then home for a well-deserved rest.

"Dinner?" Napoleon suggested as they shut off the lights and locked the door behind them.

"Italian?"

Napoleon grinned. "Sartucci's. It's new and they have the most delightful set of twin waitresses."

Illya rolled his eyes as he followed the American to the exit.

Fin


End file.
